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MIDWINTER 


JOHN BUCHAN 





By JOHN BUCHAN 


MIDWINTER 

HUNTINGTOWER 

THE PATH OF THE KING 

MR. STANDFAST 

GREENMANTLE 

THE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD 
SALUTE TO ADVENTURERS 
PRESTER JOHN 
THE POWER HOUSE 
THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS 
THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME 


New York: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





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MIDWINTER 


BY 


JOHN BUCHAN 


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NEW W YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


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COPYRIGHT, 1923 , 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


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MIDWINTER. II 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

AUG 30 ’23 

©C1A711721 






TO 

VERNON WATNEY 

We two confess twin loyalties — 
Wychwood beneath the Afril skies 
Is yours, and many a scented road 
That wifids in June by Evenlode. 

Not less when autumn fires the brake, 
Yours the deeq> heath by FannichJs lake , 
The corries where the dun deer roar 
And eagles wheel above Sgurr Mor. 

So I, who love with equal mind 
The southern sun, the northern windy 
The lilied lowland water-mead 
A nd the grey hills that cradle Tweedy 
Bring you this tale which hafly tries 
To intertwine our loyalties. 








PREFACE 

by the Editor 

Last year my friend, Mr Sebastian Derwent, on 
becoming senior partner of the reputable firm of 
solicitors which bears his name, instituted a very 
drastic clearing out of cupboards and shelves in the 
old house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Among a mass 
of derelict papers—cancelled deeds, mouldy files of 
correspondence, copies of pleadings in cases long ago 
forgotten—there was one little bundle which mysti¬ 
fied him, since it had no apparent relation to the 
practice of the law. He summoned me to dinner, 
and, with our chairs drawn up to a bright fire and 
a decanter of his famous brown sherry between us, 
we discussed its antecedents. 

First there was a document of three quarto pages, 
which appeared to be a fair copy in a scrivener’s 
hand. It started and finished abruptly, so we 
judged it to be a portion of a larger work. Then 
came a long ill-written manuscript, partly in a little 
volume of which the clasp and lock had been broken, 
and partly on loose paper which seemed to have been 
torn from the beginnings and ends of printed books. 
The paper had no watermark that we could discover, 
but its quality suggested the eighteenth century. 
Last there was a bundle of letters in various hands, 
all neatly docketed and dated. Mr Derwent en¬ 
trusted me with the papers, for certain words and 


Vll 


viii Preface 

phrases in the quarto sheets had stirred my interest. 
After considerable study I discovered that the packet 
contained a story, obscure in parts, but capable of be¬ 
ing told with some pretence of continuity. 

First for the matter copied by the amanuensis. It 
was clearly a fragment, intended by the compiler to 
form part of an introduction to the work. On first 
reading it I rubbed my eyes and tasted the joy of 
the discoverer, for I believed that I had stumbled 
upon an unknown manuscript of Mr James Boswell, 
written apparently after the publication of his Life 
of Johnson, and designed for a supplementary vol¬ 
ume, which, Dr Johnson being dead, he felt at lib¬ 
erty to compile. On reflection I grew less certain. 
The thing was undoubtedly the work of an intimate 
friend of the Great Lexicographer, but, though 
there were mannerisms of style and thought which 
suggested Mr Boswell, I did not feel able to claim 
his authorship with any confidence. It might be the 
production of one or other of the Wartons, or of 
Sir Robert Chambers, or of some Oxford friend of 
Johnson whose name has not come down to us. Mr 
Derwent at my request explored the records of his 
firm, which extended back for the better part of a 
century, but could find no evidence that it had ever 
done business for any member of the family of Au- 
chinleck. Nevertheless I incline to attribute the 
thing to Mr Boswell, for he alone of Johnson’s cir¬ 
cle was likely to have the eager interest in Scotland 
which the manuscript reveals, and the dates do not 
conflict with what we know of his movements. 

Here, at all events, is the text of it: 

In the last week of June in the year 1763 Johnson was 


Preface ix 

in Oxford, and I had the honour to accompany him one aft¬ 
ernoon to the village of Elsfield, some four miles from the 
city, on a visit to Mr Francis Wise, one of the fellows of 
Trinity College and Radcliffe’s librarian. As I have al¬ 
ready mentioned, there were certain episodes in the past life 
of my illustrious friend as to which I knew nothing, and 
certain views, nay, I venture to say prejudices, in his mind, 
for the origin of which I was at a loss to account. In par¬ 
ticular I could never receive from him any narrative of his 
life during the years 1745 and 1746, the years of our last 
civil war, during which his literary career seems to have 
been almost totally suspended. When I endeavoured to 
probe the matter, he answered me with some asperity, so 
that I feared to embarrass him with further questions. “Sir, 
I was very poor,” he once said, “and misery has no chroni¬ 
cles.” His reticence on the point was the more vexatious 
to me, since, though a loyal supporter of the present Mon¬ 
archy and Constitution, he always revealed a peculiar tender¬ 
ness towards the unfortunate House of Stuart, and I could 
not but think that in some episode in his past lay the key to 
a sentiment which was at variance with his philosophy of 
government. I was also puzzled to explain to my own mind 
the reason for his attitude towards Scotland and the Scotch 
nation, which afforded him matter for constant sarcasms and 
frequent explosions of wrath. As the world knows, he had 
a lively interest in the primitive life of the Highlands, and 
an apparent affection for those parts, but towards the rest 
of Scotland he maintained a demeanour so critical as to be 
liable to the reproach of harshness. These prejudices, cher¬ 
ished so habitually that they could not be attributed to mere 
fits of spleen, surprised me in a man of such pre-eminent 
justice and wisdom, and I was driven to think that some 
early incident in his career must have given them birth; but 
my curiosity remained unsatisfied, for when I interrogated 
him, I was met with a sullen silence, if we were alone, and, 
if company were present, a tempestuous ridicule which cov¬ 
ered me with blushes. 


x Preface 

On this occasion at Elsfield that happened which whetted 
my curiosity, but the riddle remained unread till at this late 
stage of my life, when my revered Master has long been 
dead, fortune has given the key into my hand. Mr Francis 
Wise dwelt in a small ancient manor of Lord North’s, sit¬ 
uated on the summit of a hill with a great prospect over the 
Cherwell valley and beyond it to the Cotswold uplands. 
We walked thither, and spent the hour before dinner very 
pleasantly in a fine library, admiring our host’s collection 
of antiquities and turning the pages of a noble folio wherein 
he had catalogued the coins in the Bodleian collection. John¬ 
son was in a cheerful humour, the exercise of walking had 
purified his blood, and at dinner he ate heartily of veal 
sweetbreads, and drank three or four glasses of Madeira 
wine. I remember that he commended especially a great 
ham. “Sir,” he said, “the flesh of the pig is most suitable 
for Englishmen and Christians. Foreigners love it little, 
Jews and infidels abhor it.” 

When the meal was over we walked in the garden, which 
was curiously beautified with flowering bushes and lawns 
adorned with statues and fountains. We assembled for tea 
in an arbour, constructed after the fashion of a Roman 
temple, on the edge of a clear pool. Beyond the water there 
was a sharp declivity, which had been utilised to make a 
cascade from the pool’s overflow. This descended to a stone 
tank like an ancient bath, and on each side of the small 
ravine lines of beeches had been planted. Through the 
avenue of the trees there was a long vista of meadows in the 
valley below, extending to the wooded eminence of the Duke 
of Marlborough’s palace of Blenheim, and beyond to the 
Cotswold hills. The sun was declining over these hills, 
and, since the arbour looked to the west, the pool and the 
cascade were dappled with gold, and pleasant beams escaped 
through the shade to our refuge. 

Johnson was regaled with tea, while Mr Wise and I dis¬ 
cussed a fresh bottle of wine. It was now that my eminent 
friend’s demeanour, which had been most genial during 


Preface xi 

dinner, suffered a sudden change. The servant who waited 
upon us was an honest Oxfordshire rustic with an open 
countenance and a merry eye. To my surprise I observed 
Johnson regarding him with extreme disfavour. “Who is 
that fellow?” he asked when the man had left us. Mr 
Wise mentioned his name, and that he was of a family in 
the village. “His face reminds me of a very evil scoundrel,” 
was the reply. “A Scotchman,” he added. “But no nation 
has the monopoly of rogues.” 

After that my friend’s brow remained cloudy, and he 
stirred restlessly in his chair, as if eager to be gone. Our host 
talked of the antiquities in the neighborhood, notably of the 
White Horse in Berkshire and of a similar primitive relic in 
Buckinghamshire, but he could elicit no response, though the 
subject was one to which I knew Johnson’s interest to be 
deeply pledged. He remained with his chin sunk on his 
breast, and his eyes moody as if occupied with painful mem¬ 
ories. I made anxious inquiries as to his health, but he 
waved me aside. Once he raised his head, and remained for 
some time staring across the valley at the declining sun. 

“What are these hills?” he asked. 

Mr Wise repeated names—Woodstock, Ditchley, En- 
stone. “The trees on the extreme horizon,” he said, “belong 
to Wychwood Forest.” 

The words seemed to add to Johnson’s depression. “Is it 
so?” he murmured. “Verily a strange coincidence. Sir, 
among these hills, which I now regard, were spent some of 
the bitterest moments of my life.” 

He said no more, and I durst not question him, nor did I 
ever succeed at any later date in drawing him back to the 
subject. I have a strong recollection of the discomfort of 
that occasion, for Johnson relapsed into glumness and pres¬ 
ently we rose to leave. Mr Wise, who loved talking and 
displayed his treasures with the zest of the owner of a raree- 
show, would have us visit, before going, a Roman altar 
which, he said, had lately been unearthed on his estate. John¬ 
son viewed it peevishly, and pointed out certain letters in 


xii Preface 

the inscription which seemed fresher than the rest. Mr Wise 
confessed that he had himself re-cut these letters, in con¬ 
formity, as he believed, with the purpose of the original. 
This threw Johnson into a transport of wrath. “Sir,” he 
said, “the man who would tamper with an ancient monu¬ 
ment, with whatever intentions, is capable of defiling his 
father’s tomb.” There was no word uttered between us on 
the walk back to Oxford. Johnson strode at such a pace 
that I could scarcely keep abreast of him, and I would fain 
have done as he did on an earlier occasion, and cried Suf- 
flarnina. x 

The incident which I have recorded has always remained 
vivid in my memory, but I despaired of unravelling the 
puzzle, and believed that the clue was buried for ever in the 
grave of the illustrious dead. But, by what I prefer to call 
Providence rather than Chance, certain papers have lately 
come into my possession, which enable me to clear up the 
mystery of that summer evening, to add a new chapter to 
the life of one of the greatest of mankind, and to portray my 
dear and revered friend in a part which cannot fail to 
heighten our conception of the sterling worth of his char¬ 
acter. 

Thus far the quarto pages. Their author—Mr 
Boswell or some other—no doubt intended to ex¬ 
plain how he received the further papers, and to cast 
them into some publishable form. Neither task 
was performed. The rest of the manuscript, as I 
have said, was orderly enough, but no editorial care 
had been given it. I have discovered nothing fur¬ 
ther about Alastair Maclean save what the narra¬ 
tive records, and my research among the archives 
of Oxfordshire families has not enabled me to add 
much to the history of the other figures. But I have 

1 See Boswell’s Life of Johnson, anno 1754. 


Preface xiii 

put such materials as I had into the form of a tale, 
which seems of sufficient interest to present to the 
world. I could wish that Mr Boswell had lived to 
perform the task, for I am confident that he would 
have made a better job of it. 



/ 









CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I IN WHICH A HIGHLAND GENTLEMAN MISSES 

HIS WAY. 19 

II IN WHICH A NOBLEMAN IS PERPLEXED . . 39 

III IN WHICH PRIVATE MATTERS CUT ACROSS AF¬ 

FAIRS OF STATE. 65 

IV MR KYD OF GREYHOUSES.77 

V CHANCE-MEDLEY. 91 

VI INTRODUCES THE RUNAWAY LADY . . . 109 

VII HOW A MAN MAY HUNT WITH THE HOUNDS 

AND YET RUN WITH THE HARE . . .122 

VIII BROOM AT THE CROSS-ROADS . . . 1 38 

IX OLD ENGLAND.152 

X SNOWBOUND AT THE SLEEPING DEER . . 168 

XI NIGHT AT THE SAME: TWO VISITORS . . 190 

XII THE HUT IN THE OAK SHAW .... 202 

XIII JOURNEYMAN JOHN.217 

XIV DUCHESS KITTY ON THE ROAD . . . . 231 

XV BIDS FAREWELL TO A SCOTS LAIRD . . . 245 

XVI BIDS FAREWELL TO AN ENGLISH LADY . . 267 

XVII ORDEAL OF HONOUR. 279 

XVIII IN WHICH THREE GENTLEMEN CONFESS THEIR 

NAKEDNESS.299 

XIX RAMOTH-GILEAD.315 

. • • • • • • . 33 1 


POSTSCRIPT 





MIDWINTER 







MIDWINTER 


Chapter I 


IN WHICH A HIGHLAND GENTLEMAN MISSES HIS 

WAY 

r jT v HE road which had begun as a rutted cart- 
track sank presently to a grassy footpath 
among scrub oaks, and as the boughs whipped his 
face the young man cried out impatiently and pulled 
up his horse to consider. He was on a journey 
where secrecy was not less vital than speed, and he 
was finding the two incompatible. That morning 
he had avoided Banbury and the high road which 
followed the crown of Cotswold to the young 
streams of Thames, for that way lay Beaufort’s 
country, and at such a time there would be jealous 
tongues to question passengers. For the same rea¬ 
son he had left the main Oxford road on his right, 
since the channel between Oxford and the North 
might well be troublesome, even for a respectable 
traveller who called himself Mr Andrew Watson, 
and was ready with a legend of a sea-coal business 
in Newcastle. But his circumspection seemed to 
have taken him too far on an easterly course into a 
land of tangled forests. He pulled out his chart 
of the journey and studied it with puzzled eyes. 

My Lord Cornbury’s house could not be twenty 

19 


20 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

miles distant, but what if the twenty miles were path¬ 
less? An October gale was tossing the boughs and 
whirling the dead bracken, and a cold rain was 
beginning. Ill weather was nothing to one nour¬ 
ished among Hebridean north-westers, but he cursed 
a land in which there were no landmarks. A hill¬ 
tops glimpse of sea or loch, even a stone on a ridge, 
were things a man could steer by, but what was he 
to do in this unfeatured woodland? These soft 
south-country folk stuck to their roads, and the 
roads were forbidden him. 

A little further and the track died away in a 
thicket of hazels. He drove his horse through the 
scrub and came out on a glade, where the ground 
sloped steeply to a jungle of willows, beyond which 
he had a glimpse through the drizzle of a gray- 
green fen. Clearly that was not his direction, and 
he turned sharply to the right along the edge of the 
declivity. Once more he was in the covert, and 
his ill-temper grew with every briar that whipped 
his face. Suddenly he halted, for he heard the 
sound of speech. 

It came from just in front of him—a voice speak¬ 
ing loud and angry, and now and then a squeal like 
a scared animal’s. An affair between some forester 
and a poaching hind, he concluded, and would fain 
have turned aside. But the thicket on each hand 
was impenetrable, and, moreover, he earnestly de¬ 
sired advice about the road. He was hesitating in 
his mind, when the cries broke out again, so sharp 
with pain that instinctively he pushed forward. 
The undergrowth blocked his horse, so he dis¬ 
mounted and, with a hand fending his eyes, made 
a halter of the bridle and dragged the animal after 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 21 

him. He came out into a little dell down which a 
path ran, and confronted two human beings. 

They did not see him, being intent on their own 
business. One was a burly fellow in a bottle-green 
coat, a red waistcoat and corduroy small clothes, 
from whose gap-toothed mouth issued volleys of 
abuse. In his clutches was a slim boy in his early 
teens, a dark sallow slip of a lad, clad in nothing 
but a shirt and short leather breeches. The man had 
laid his gun on the ground, and had his knee in 
the small of the child’s back, while he was viciously 
twisting one arm so that his victim cried like a 
rabbit in the grip of a weasel. The barbarity of it 
undid the traveller’s discretion. 

“Hold there,” he cried, and took a pace forward. 

The man turned his face, saw a figure which he 
recognised as a gentleman, and took his knee from 
the boy’s back, though he still kept a clutch on his 
arm. 

“Sarvant, sir,” he said, touching his hat with his 
free hand. “What might ’ee be wanting o’ Tom 
Heather?” His voice was civil, but his face was 
ugly. 

“Let the lad go.” 

“Sir Edward’s orders, sir—that’s Sir Edward 
Turner, Baronet, of Ambrosden House in this ’ere 
shire, ’im I ’as the honour to serve. Sir Edward ’e 
says, ‘Tom,’ ’e says, ‘if ’ee finds a poacher in the 
New Woods ’ee knows what to do with ’im without 
troubling me’; and I reckon I does know. Them 
moor-men is the worst varmints in the country, and 
the youngest is the black-heartedest, like foxes.” 

The grip had relaxed and the boy gave a twist 
which freed him. Instantly he dived into the scrub. 


22 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

The keeper made a bound after him, thought better 
of it and stood sullenly regarding the traveller. 

“I’ve been a-laying for the misbegotten slip them 
five weeks, and now I loses him, and all along of 
’ee, sir.” His tones suggested that silver might be 
a reasonable compensation. 

But the young man, disliking his looks, was in no 
mood for almsgiving, and forgot the need of dis¬ 
cretion. Also he came from a land where coin of 
the realm was scarce. 

“If it’s your master’s orders to torture babes, then 
you and he can go to the devil. But show me the 
way out of this infernal wood and you shall have 
a shilling for your pains.” 

At first the keeper seemed disposed to obey, for 
he turned and made a sign for the traveller to fol¬ 
low. But he swung round again, and, resting the 
gun which he had picked up in the crook of his arm, 
he looked the young man over with a dawning inso¬ 
lence in his eyes. He was beginning to see a more 
profitable turn in the business. The horseman was 
soberly but reputably dressed, and his beast was 
good, but what did he in this outlandish place? 

“Making so bold,” said the keeper, “how come 
’ee a-wandering ’ere, sir? Where might ’ee be 
making for?” 

“Charlbury,” was the answer. 

The man whistled. “Charlbury,” he repeated. 
“Again begging pardon, sir, it’s a place knowm for 
a nest of Papishes. I’d rather ha’ heerd ’ee was 
going to Hell. And where might ’ee come from 
last, sir?” 

The traveller checked his rising temper. “Ban¬ 
bury,” he said shortly. 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 23 

The keeper whistled again. “ ’Ee’ve fetched a 
mighty roundabout way, sir, and the good turnpike 
running straight for any Christian to see. But I’ve 
heard tell of folks that fought shy of turnpikes.” 

“Confound you, man,” the traveller cried; “show 
me the road or I will find it myself and you’ll forfeit 
your shilling.” 

The keeper did not move. “A shilling’s no price 
for a man’s honesty. I reckon ’ee mun come up 
with me to Sir Edward, sir. He says to me only 
this morning—‘ ’Ee watch the Forest, Tom, and if 
’ee finds any that can’t give good account of them¬ 
selves, ’ee fetch them up to me, and it’ll maybe 
mean a golden guinea in your pocket.’ Sir Edward 
’e’s a Parliament man, and a Justice, and ’e’s hot 
for King and country. There’s soldiers at Islip 
bridge-end asking questions of all as is journeying 
west, and there’s questions Sir Edward is going to 
ask of a gentleman as travels from Banbury to 
Charlbury by the edges of Otmoor.” 

The servility had gone from the man’s voice, and 
in its place were insolence and greed. A guinea 
might have placated him, but the traveller was not 
accustomed to bribe. A hot flush had darkened his 
face, and his eyes were bright. 

“Get out of my way, you rogue,” he cried. 

The keeper stood his ground. “ ’Ee will come to 
Sir Edward with me if ’ee be an honest man.” 

“And if not?” 

“It’s my duty to constrain ’ee in the name of our 
Lord the King.” 

The man had raised his gun, but before he could 
bring the barrel forward he was looking at a pistol 
held in a very steady hand. He was no coward, but 


24 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

he had little love for needless risks, when he could 
find a better way. He turned and ran up the steep 
path at a surprising pace for one of his build, and 
as he ran he blew shrilly on a whistle. 

The traveller left alone in the dell bit his lips with 
vexation. He had made a pretty mess of a journey 
which above all things should have been incon¬ 
spicuous, and had raised a hue and cry after him on 
the domain of some arrogant Whig. He heard the 
keeper’s steps and the note of his whistle grow 
fainter; he seemed to be crying to others and an¬ 
swers came back faintly. In a few minutes he would 
be in a brawl with lackeys. ... In that jungle there 
was no way of escape for a mounted man, so he 
must needs stand and fight. 

And then suddenly he was aware of a face in the 
hazels. 

It was the slim boy whom his intervention had 
saved from a beating. The lad darted from his 
cover and seized the horse’s bridle. Speaking no 
word, he made signs to the other to follow, and the 
traveller, glad of any port in a storm, complied. 
They slithered at a great pace down the steep bank 
to the thicket of willows, which proved to be the 
brink of a deep ditch. A little way along it they 
crossed by a ford of hurdles, where the water was 
not over a man’s riding boots. They were now in 
a morass, which they threaded by a track which 
showed dimly among the reeds, and, as the whistling 
and cries were still audible behind them, they did 
not relax their pace. But after two more deep 
runnels had been passed, and a mere thick with 
water-lilies crossed by a chain of hard tussocks like 
stepping-stones, the guide seemed to consider the 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 25 

danger gone. He slowed down, laughing, and 
cocked snooks in the direction of the pursuit. Then 
he signed to the traveller to remount his horse, but 
when the latter would have questioned him, he shook 
his head and put a finger on his lips. He was either 
dumb or a miracle of prudence. 

The young man found himself in a great green 
fenland, but the falling night and the rain limited 
his view to a narrow circle. There was a constant 
crying of snipe and plover around him, and the 
noise of wild fowl rose like the croaking of frogs in 
the Campagna. Acres of rank pasture were 
threaded with lagoons where the brown water 
winked and bubbled above fathomless mud. The 
traveller sniffed the air with a sense of something 
foreign and menacing. The honest bitter smell of 
peat-bogs he loved, but the odour of this marsh was 
heavy and sweet and rotten. As his horse’s hooves 
squelched in the sodden herbage he shivered a little 
and glanced suspiciously at his guide. Where was 
this gipsy halfling leading him? It looked as if he 
had found an ill-boding sanctuary. 

With every yard that he advanced into the dank 
green wilderness his oppression increased. The 
laden air, the mist, the clamour of wild birds, the 
knowledge that his horse was no advantage since a 
step aside would set it wallowing to the girths, all 
combined to make the place a prison-house, hateful 
to one on an urgent mission. . . . Suddenly he was 
above the fen on a hard causeway, where hooves 
made a solid echo. His spirits recovered, for he 
recognised Roman work, and a Roman road did not 
end in sloughs. On one side, below the level of the 
causeway, was a jungle of blackthorn and elder, and 


26 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

a whiff of wood-smoke reached his nostrils. The 
guide halted and three times gave a call like that 
of a nesting red-shank. It was answered, and from 
an alley in the scrub a man appeared. 

He was a roughly dressed countryman, wearing 
huge leathern boots muddied to the knee. Appar¬ 
ently the guide was not wholly dumb, for he spoke 
to him in an odd voice that croaked from the back 
of his throat, and the man nodded and bent his 
brows. Then he lifted his eyes and solemnly re¬ 
garded the horseman for the space of some seconds. 

“You be welcome, sir,” he said. “If you can 
make shift with poor fare there be supper and lodg¬ 
ing waiting for you.” 

The boy made signs for him to dismount, and led 
off the horse, while the man beckoned him to follow 
into the tunnel in the scrub. In less than fifty yards 
he found himself in a clearing where a knuckle of 
gravel made a patch of hard ground. In the centre 
stood a small ancient obelisk, like an overgrown 
milestone. A big fire of logs and brushwood was 
burning, and round it sat half a dozen men, engaged 
in cooking. They turned slow eyes on the new¬ 
comer, and made room for him in their circle. 

“Tom Heather’s been giving trouble. He cotched 
Zerry and was a-basting him when this gentleman 
rides up. Then he turns on the gentleman, and, 
being feared o’ him as man to man, goes whistling 
for Red Tosspot and Brother Mark. So Zerry 
brings the gentleman into the Moor, and here he be. 
I tell him he’s kindly welcome, and snug enough 
with us moor-men, though the King’s soldiers was 
sitting in all the Seven Towns.” 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 27 

“He’d be safe,” said one, “though Lord Abing¬ 
don and his moor-drivers was prancing up at 
Beckley.” 

There was a laugh at this, and the new-comer, 
cheered by the blaze and the smell of food, made 
suitable reply. He had not quite understood their 
slow burring speech, nor did they altogether follow 
his words, for he spoke English in the formal clipped 
fashion of one to whom it was an acquired tongue. 
But the goodwill on both sides was manifest, and 
food was pressed on him—wild duck roasted on 
stakes, hunks of brown bread, and beer out of 
leather jacks. The men had been fowling, for 
great heaps of mallard and teal and widgeon were 
piled beyond the fire. 

The traveller ate heartily, for he had had no meal 
since breakfast, and as he ate, he studied his com¬ 
panions in the firelight. They were rough-looking ' 
fellows, dressed pretty much alike in frieze and 
leather, and they had the sallowish skin and yellow- 
tinged eyes which he remembered to have seen 
among the dwellers in the Ravenna marshes. But 
they were no gipsies or outlaws, but had the as¬ 
sured and forthright air of men with some stake in 
the land. Excellent were their manners, for the 
presence of a stranger in no way incommoded them; 
they attended to his wants, and with easy good¬ 
breeding talked their own talk. Understanding lit¬ 
tle of that talk, he occupied himself in observing 
their faces and gestures with the interest of a trav¬ 
eller in a new country. These folk were at once 
slower and speedier than his own kind—more de¬ 
liberate in speech and movement, but quicker to 


28 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

show emotion in their open countenances. He spec¬ 
ulated on their merits as soldiers, for against such 
as these he and his friends must presently fight. 

u ’Morrow we’d best take Mercot Fleet,” said 
one. “Mas’r Midwinter reckons as the floods will 
be down come Sunday.” 

“Right, neighbour Basson,” said another. “He 
knows times and seasons better’n Parson and near 
as well as Almighty God.” 

“What be this tale of bloody wars?” asked a 
third. “The Spoonbills be out, and that means that 
the land is troubled. They was saying down at 
Noke that Long Giles was seen last week at Ban¬ 
bury fair and the Spayniard was travelling the 
Lunnon road. All dressed up he were like a fine 
gentleman, and at Wheatley Green Man he was 
snuffing out o’ Squire Norreys’ box.” 

“Who speaks of the Spoonbills?” said the man 
who had first welcomed the traveller. “We bain’t 
no ale-house prattlers. What Mas’r Midwinter 
wants us to know I reckon he’ll tell us open and 
neighbourly. Think you he’ll make music the 
night?” 

“He’s had his supper the best part of an hour, 
and then he’ll take tobacco. After that happen he’ll 
gie us a tune.” 

The speaker had looked over his shoulder, and 
the traveller, following his glance, became aware 
that close on the edge of the thicket a small tent 
was pitched. The night had fallen thick and moon¬ 
less, but the firelight, wavering in the wind, showed 
it as a grey patch against the gloom of the covert. 
As the conversation droned on, that patch held his 
eyes like a magnet. There was a man there, some 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 29 

one with the strange name of Midwinter, some one 
whom these moor-men held in reverence. The 
young man had the appetite of his race for mys¬ 
teries, and his errand had keyed him to a mood of 
eager inquiry. He looked at the blur which was the 
tent as a terrior watches a badger’s earth. 

The talk round the fire had grown boisterous, for 
some one had told a tale which woke deep rumbling 
laughter. Suddenly it was hushed, for the thin high 
note of a violin cleft the air like an arrow. 

The sound was muffled by the tent-cloth, but none 
the less it dominated and filled that lonely place. 
The traveller had a receptive ear for music and had 
heard many varieties in his recent wanderings, from 
the operas of Rome and Paris to gipsy dances in 
wild glens of Apennine and Pyrenees. But this 
fiddling was a new experience, for it obeyed no law, 
but jigged and wailed and chuckled like a gale in 
an old house. It seemed to be a symphony of the 
noises of the moor, where unearthly birds sang duets 
with winds from the back of beyond. It stirred him 
strangely. His own bagpipes could bring tears to 
his eyes with memory of things dear and familiar; 
but this quickened his blood, like a voice from a far 
world. 

The group by the fire listened stolidly with their 
heads sunk, but the young man kept his eyes on the 
tent. Presently the music ceased, and from the flap 
a figure emerged with the fiddle in its hand. The 
others rose to their feet, and remained standing till 
the musician had taken a seat at the other side of 
the fire from the traveller. “Welcome, Mas’r Mid¬ 
winter,” was the general greeting, and one of them 
told him the story of Tom Heather and their guest. 


30 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

The young man by craning his neck could see the 
new figure clear in the glow of the embers. He 
made out a short man of an immense breadth of 
shoulder, whose long arms must have reached well 
below his knees. He had a large square face, tanned 
to the colour of bark, and of a most surprising ugli¬ 
ness, for his nose was broken in the middle, and one 
cheek and the corner of one eye were puckered with 
an old scar. Chin and lips were shaven, and the 
wide mouth showed white regular teeth. His gar¬ 
ments seemed to be of leather like the others’, but 
he wore a cravat, and his hair, though unpowdered, 
was neatly tied. 

He was looking at the traveller and, catching his 
eye, he bowed and smiled pleasantly. 

“You have found but a rough lodging, Mr-” 

he said, with the lift of interrogation^ his voice. 

“Andrew Watson they call me. A merchant of 
Newcastle, sir, journeying Bristol-wards on a matter 
of business.” The formula, which had sounded well 
enough hitherto, now seemed inept, and he spoke 
it with less assurance. 

The fiddler laughed. “That is for change-houses. 
Among friends you will doubtless tell another tale. 
For how comes a merchant of the North country to 
be so far from a high road? Shall I read the riddle, 
sir? 

He took up his violin and played very low and 
sweetly a Border lilt called “The Waukin’ o’ the 
Fauld.” The young man listened with interest, but 
his face did not reveal what the musician sought. 
The latter tried again, this time the tune called 
“Colin’s Cattle,” which was made by the fairies and 
was hummed everywhere north of Forth. Bright 



A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 31 

eyes read the young man’s face. “I touch you,” the 
fiddler said, “but not closely.” 

For a moment he seemed to consider, and then 
drew from his instrument a slow dirge, with the rain 
in it and the west wind and the surge of forlorn 
seas. It was that lament which in all the country 
from Mull to Moidart is the begetter of long 
thoughts. He played it like a master, making his 
fiddle weep and brood and exult in turn, and he 
ended with a fantastic variation so bitter with pain 
that the young man, hearing his ancestral melody in 
this foreign land, cried out in amazement. 

The musician lowered his violin, smiling. “This 
time,” he said, “I touch you at the heart. Now I 
know you. You have nothing to fear among the 
moor-men of the Seven Towns. Take your ease, 
Alastair Maclean, among friends.” 

The traveller, thus unexpectedly unveiled, could 
find no words for his astonishment. 

“Are you of the honest party?” he stammered, 
more in awe than in anxiety. 

“I am of no party. Ask the moor-men if the 
Spoonbills trouble their heads with Governments?” 

The answer from the circle was a laugh. 

“Who are you, then, that matches thus the com¬ 
ings and goings of travellers?” 

“I am nothing—a will-o’-the-wisp at your service 
—a clod of vivified dust whom its progenitors chris¬ 
tened Amos Midwinter. I have no possession but 
my name, and no calling but that of philosopher. 
Naked I came from the earth, and naked I will 
return to it.” 

He plucked with a finger at the fiddle-strings, and 
evoked an odd lilt. Then he crooned: 


32 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

“Three naked men I saw, 

One to hang and one to draw, 

One to feed the corbie’s maw.” 

The men by the fire shivered, and one spoke. 
“Let be, Mas’r Midwinter. Them words makes my 
innards cold.” 

“I will try others,” and he sang: 

“Three naked men we be, 

Stark aneath the blackthorn tree. 

Christ ha’ mercy on such as we!” 

The young man found his apprehensions yielding 
place to a lively curiosity. From this madman, 
whoever he might be, he ran no risk of betrayal. 
The thought flashed over his mind that here was one 
who might further the cause he served. 

“I take it you are not alone in your calling?” he 
said. 

“There are others—few but choice. There are 
no secrets among us who camp by Jacob’s Stone.” 
He pointed to the rude obelisk which was just within 
the glow of the fire. “Once that was an altar where 
the Romans sacrificed to fierce gods and pretty god¬ 
desses. It is a thousand years and more since it 
felt their flame, but it has always been a trysting 
place. We Christian men have foresworn Apollo, 
but maybe he still lingers, and the savour of our 
little cooking fires may please him. I am one that 
takes no chances with the old gods. . . . Here there 
is safety for the honest law-breaker, and confidence 
for the friend, for we are reverent souls. How 
does it go ?—Fides et Pax et Honos Pudorque 
priscus.” 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 33 

* 

“Then tell me of your brotherhood.” 

The man laughed. “That no man can know 
unless he be sealed of it. From the Channel to the 
Tyne they call us the Spoonbills, and on Cumbrian 
moors they know us as the Bog-blitters. But our 
titles are as many as the by-names of Jupiter. Up 
in your country I have heard that men talk of us as 
the Left-Handed.” 

He spoke the last word in Gaelic— Ciotach —and 
the young man at the sound of his own tongue almost 
leapt to his feet. 

“Have you the speech?” he cried in the same 
language. 

The man shook his head. “I have nothing. For 
our true name is that I have sung to you. We are 
the Naked Men.” And he crooned again the strange 
catch. 

For an instant Alstair felt his soul clouded by an 
eeriness which his bustling life had not known since 
as a little boy he had wandered alone into the cor- 
ries of Sgurr Dubh. The moonless night was black 
about him, and it had fallen silent except for the 
sputter of logs. He seemed cut off from all things 
familiar by infinite miles of midnight, and in the 
heart of the darkness was this madman who knew 
all things and made a mock of knowledge. The 
situation so far transcended his experience that his 
orderly world seemed to melt into shadows, d he 
tangible bounds of life dislimned and he looked into 
outer space. But the fiddler dispelled the atmo¬ 
sphere of awe, for he pulled out a pipe and filled and 
lit it. 

“I can offer you better hospitality, sir, than a bed 
by the fire. A share of my tent is at your service. 


34 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

These moor-men are hardened to it, but if you press 
the ground this October night you will most surely 
get a touch of the moor-evil, and that is ill to cure 
save by a week’s drinking of Oddington Well. So 
by your grace we will leave our honest friends to 
their talk of latimer and autumn markets.” 

Accompanied by deep-voiced “Good-nights” Alas- 
tair followed the fiddler to the tent, which proved 
to be larger and more pretentious than it had ap¬ 
peared from the fire. Midwinter lit a small lamp 
which he fastened to the pole, and closed the flap. 
The traveller’s mails had been laid on the floor, and 
two couches had been made up of skins of fox and 
deer and badger heaped on dry rushes. 

“You do not use tobacco?” Midwinter asked. 
“Then I will administer a cordial against the marsh 
fever.” From a leathern case he took a silver- 
mounted bottle, and poured a draught into a horn 
cup. It was a kind of spiced brandy which Alastair 
had drunk in Southern France, and it ran through 
his blood like a mild and kindly fire, driving out the 
fatigue of the day but disposing to a pleasant drowsi¬ 
ness. He removed his boots and coat and cravat, 
loosened the points of his breeches, replaced his wig 
with a kerchief, and flung himself gratefully on the 
couch. 

Meantime the other had stripped almost to the 
buff, revealing a mighty chest furred like a pelt. 
Alastair noted that the underclothes which remained 
were of silk; he noticed, too, that the man had long 
fine hands at the end of his brawny arms, and that 
his skin, where the weather had not burned it, was 
as delicately white as a lady’s. Midwinter finished 
his pipe, sitting hunched among the furs, with his 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 35 

eyes feed steadily on the young man. There was a 
mesmerism in those eyes which postponed sleep, and 
drove Alastair to speak. Besides, the lilt sung by 
the fire still hummed in his ears. 

“Who told you my name?"’ he asked. 

“That were too long a tale. Suffice it to say that 
I knew of your coming, and that long before Ban¬ 
bury you entered the orbit of my knowledge. Nay, 
sir, I can tell you also your errand, and I warn you 
that you will fail. You are about to beat at a barred 
and bolted door.” 

“I must think you mistaken.” 

“For your youth’s sake, I would that I were. 
Consider, sir. You come from the North to bid a 
great man risk his all on a wild hazard. What can 
you, who have all your days been an adventurer, 
know of the dragging weight of an ordered life and 
broad lands and a noble house? The rich man of 
old turned away sorrowful from Christ because he 
had great possessions! Think you that the rich man 
nowadays will be inclined to follow your boyish 
piping? 

Alastair, eager to hear more but mindful of cau¬ 
tion, finessed. 

“I had heard better reports of his Grace of Beau¬ 
fort,” he said. 

The brown eyes regarded him quizzically. “I 
did not speak of the Duke, but of Lord Corn- 
bury.” 

The young man exclaimed. “But I summon him 
in the name of loyalty and religion.” 

“Gallant words. But I would remind you that 
loyalty and religion have many meanings, and self- 
interest is a skilled interpreter.” 


36 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Wag 

“Our Prince has already done enough to convince 
even self-interest.” 

“Not so. You have for a moment conquered 
Scotland, but you will not hold it, for it is written 
in nature that Highlands will never for long control 
Lowlands. England you have not touched and will 
never move. The great men have too much to lose 
and the plain folk are careless about the whole 
quarrel. They know nothing of your young Prince 
except that he is half foreigner and whole Papist, 
and has for his army a mob of breechless moun- 
tainers. You can win only by enlisting Old England, 
and Old England has forgotten you.” 

“Let her but remain neutral, and we will beat the 
Hanoverian’s soldiers.” 

“Maybe. But to clinch victory you must persuade 
the grandees of this realm, and in that I think you 
will fail. You are Johnnie Armstrong and the King. 
‘To seek het water beneath cauld ice, surely it is a 
great follie.’ And, like Johnnie, the time will come 
for you to say good-night.” 

“What manner of man are you, who speak like 
an oracle? You are gentle born?” 

“I am gentle born, but I have long since forfeited 
my heritage. Call me Ulysses, who has seen all the 
world’s cities and men, and has at length returned 
to Ithaca. I am a dweller in Old England.” 

“That explains little.” 

“Nay, it explains all. There is an Old England 
which has outlived Roman and Saxon and Dane and 
Norman and will outlast the Hanoverian. It has 
seen priest turn to presbyter and presbyter to parson 
and has only smiled. It is the land of the edge of 
moorlands and the rims of forests and the twilight 


A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 37 

before dawn, and strange knowledge still dwells in 
it. Lords and Parliament-men bustle about, but the 
dust of their coaches stops at the roadside hedges, 
and they do not see the quiet eyes watching them at 
the fords. Those eyes are their masters, young sir. 
I am gentle born, as you guess, and have been in my 
day scholar and soldier, but now my companions 
are the moor-men and the purley-men and the hill- 
shepherds and the raggle-taggle gipsies. And I am 
wholly content, for my calling is philosophy. I 
stand aside in life, and strike no blows and make 
no bargain, but I learn that which is hid from 
others.” 

Alastair stirred impatiently. 

“You are not above forty,” he said. “You have 
health and wits and spirit. Great God, man, have 
you no cause or leader to fight for? Have you no 
honest ambition to fulfil before you vanish into the 
dark?” 

“None. You and I are at opposite poles of mind. 
You are drunken with youth and ardent to strike 
a blow for a dozen loves. You value life, but you 
will surrender it joyfully for a whimsy of honour. 
You travel with a huge baggage of ambitions and 
loyalties. For me, I make it my business to travel 
light, caring nothing for King or party or church. 
As I told you, I and my like are the Naked Men.” 

Alastair’s eyes were drooping. 

“Have you no loyalties?” he asked sleepily. 

The answer wove itself into his first dream. “I 
have the loyalties of Old England.” 

When Alastair awoke he found his boots cleaned 
from the mud of yesterday, and his coat well brushed 
and folded. The moor-men had gone off to their 


38 A Highland Gentleman Misses His Way 

fowling, and the two were alone in the clearing, on 
which had closed down a dense October fog. They 
breakfasted off a flagon of beer and a broiled wild- 
duck, which Midwinter cooked on a little fire. He 
had resumed his coarse leather garments, and looked 
like some giant gnome as he squatted at his task. 
But daytime had taken from him the odd glamour 
of the past night. He now seemed only a thick-set 
countryman—a horse-doctor or a small yeoman. 

The boy Zerry appeared with the horse, which 
had been skilfully groomed, and Midwinter led the 
young man to the Roman causeway. 

“It is a clear road to Oddington,” he told him, 
“where you can cross the river by the hurdle bridge. 
Keep the bells of Woodeaton that we call the Fla¬ 
geolets on your left hand—they will be ringing for 
St Luke’s morn. Presently you will come to the 
Stratford road, which will bring you to Enstone and 
the fringe of Wychwood forest. You will be at 
Cornbury long before the dinner-hour.” 

When Alastair was in the saddle, the other held 
out his hand. 

“I have a liking for you, and would fain serve 
you. You will not be advised by me but will go 
your own proud road. God prosper you, young sir. 
But if it so be that you should lose your fine bag¬ 
gage and need a helper, then I have this word for 
you. Find an ale-house which, whatever its sign, 
has an open eye painted beneath it, or a cross-roads 
with a tuft of broom tied to the signpost. Whistle 
there the catch I taught you last night, and maybe 
the Naked Men will come to your aid.” 


Chapter II 


<■ 


IN WHICH A NOBLEMAN IS PERPLEXED 

Z) Y MIDDAY Alastair, riding at leisure, had 
crossed the first downs of Cotswold and 
dropped upon the little town of Charlbury, drowsing 
by Evenlode in a warm October noon. He had left 
the fog of morning behind in the Cherwell valley, 
the gale of the previous day had died, and the second 
summer of St Luke lay soft on the country-side. 
In the benign weather the events of the night before 
seemed a fantastic dream. No mystery could lurk 
in this land of hedgerows and fat pastures; and the 
figure of Midwinter grew as absurd in his recollec¬ 
tion as the trolls that trouble an indifferent sleeper. 
But a vague irritation remained. The fellow had 
preached a cowardly apathy towards all that a gen¬ 
tleman held dear. In the rebound the young man’s 
ardour flamed high; he would carve with his sword 
and his wits a road to power, and make a surly 
world acknowledge him. Unselfish aims likewise 
filled his mind—a throne for his Prince, power for 
Clan Gillian, pride for his land, and for his friends 
riches and love. 

In Charlbury he selected his inn, the Wheatsheaf, 
had his horse fed and rubbed down, drank a tank¬ 
ard of ale, rid himself of the dust of the roads, 
and deposited his baggage. A decorous and incon¬ 
spicuous figure, in his chocolate coat and green 

velvet waistcoat with a plain dark hat of three cocks, 

39 


40 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

t 

\ 

the servants of the inn were at once civil and incuri¬ 
ous. He questioned the landlord about the Forest 
of Wychwood, as if his errand lay with one of the 
rangers, and was given a medley of information in 
a speech which had the slurred “s’s” and the burred 
“r’s” of Gloucestershire. There was the Honour¬ 
able Mr Baptist Leveson-Gower, at the Rangers’ 
Lodge, and Robert Lee at the Burford Lawn Lodge, 
and Jack Blackstone, him they called Chuffle Jack, 
at the Thatched Lodge, and likewise the Verderers, 
Peg Lee and Bob Jenkinson. He assumed that his 
guest’s business lay with Mr Leveson-Gower, and 
Alastair did not undeceive him, but asked casually 
where lay Cornbury. The landlord took him by the 
arm, and pointed beyond the stream to the tree-clad 
hills. “Over the river, sir, by the road that turns 
right-handed at the foot of the street. You passes 
the gate on your way to Rangers’ Lodge. His Lord- 
ship be in residence, and entertains high quality. 
His lady sister, the Scotch Duchess, arrived two 
days back, and there’s been post-chaises and coaches 
going to and fro all week.” 

Alastair remounted his horse in some disquiet, 
for a houseful of great folks seemed to make but a 
poor setting for urgent and secret conclaves. By a 
stone bridge he crossed the Evenlode which foamed 
in spate, the first free-running stream he had seen 
since he left the North, and passed through massive 
iron gates between white lodges built in Charles 
the Second’s day. He found himself in avenue 
of chestnuts and young limes, flanked by the boles 
of great beeches, which stretched magnificently up 
the slopes of a hill. In the centre was a gravelled 
road for coaches, but on either side lay broad belts 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 41 

of turf strewn with nuts and fallen leaves. . . . His 
assurance began to fail, for he remembered Mid¬ 
winter’s words on the Moor. The place was a vast 
embattled fortress of ease, and how would a mes¬ 
senger fare here who brought a summons to hazard 
all? In his own country a gentleman’s house was a 
bare stone tower, looking out on moor or sea, with 
a huddle of hovels round the door. To such dwell¬ 
ings men sat loose, as to a tent in a campaign. But 
the ordered amenities of such a mansion as this— 
the decent town at the gates richer than a city of 
Scotland, the acres of policies that warded the house 
from the vulgar eye, the secular trees, the air of 
long-descended peace—struck a chill to his hopes. 
What did a kestrel in the home of peacocks? 

At the summit of the hill the road passed beneath 
an archway into a courtyard; but here masons were 
at work and Alastair turned to the left, in doubt 
about the proper entrance. Fifty yards brought him 
in sight of a corner of the house and into a pleas- 
ance bright with late flowers, from which a park fell 
away into a shallow vale. There in front of him 
was a group of people walking on the stone of the 
terrace. 

He was observed, and from the party a gentle¬ 
man came forward, while the others turned their 
backs and continued their stroll. The gentleman 
was in the thirties, a slim figure a little bent in the 
shoulders, wearing his own hair, which was of a rich 
brown, and dressed very plainly in a country suit of 
green. He advanced with friendly peering eyes, 
and Alastair, who had dismounted, recognised the 
master of the house from a miniature he had seen 
in M. de Tremouille’s hands. 


42 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

“Have I the honour to address Lord Cornbury?” 
he asked. 

The other bowed, smiling, and his short-sighted 
eyes looked past the young man, and appraised his 
horse. 

“My lord, I have a letter from M. de Tre- 
mouille.” 

Lord Cornbury took the letter, and, walking a few 
paces to a clump of trees, read it carefully twice. 
He turned to Alastair with a face in which embar¬ 
rassment strove with his natural kindliness. 

“Any friend of M. de Tremouille’s is friend of 
mine, Captain Maclean. Show me how I can serve 
you. Your baggage is at the inn? It shall be 
brought here at once, for I would not forgive myself 
if one recommended to me by so old a friend slept 
at a public hostelry.” 

The young man bowed. “I will not refuse your 
hospitality, my lord, for I am here to beg an hour 
of most private conversation. I come not from 
France, but from the North.” 

A curious embarrassment twisted the other’s face. 

“You have the word?” he asked in a low voice. 

“I am Alcinous y of whom I think you have been 
notified.” 

Lord Cornbury strode off a few steps and then 
came back. “Yes,” he said simply, “I have been 
notified. I expected you a month back. But let 
me tell you, sir, you have arrived in a curst incon¬ 
venient hour. This house is full of Whiggish com¬ 
pany. There is my sister Queensberry, and there is 
Mr Murray, His Majesty’s Solicitor. . . . Nay, 
perhaps the company is the better cloak for you. I 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 43 

will give you your private hour after supper. Mean¬ 
time you are Captain Maclean—of Lee’s Regiment, 
I think, in King Louis’ service—and you have come 
from Paris from Paul de Tremouille on a matter of 
certain gems in my collection that he would purchase 
for the Due de Bouillon. You are satisfied you can 
play that part, sir. Not a word of politics. You 
do not happen to be interested in statecraft, and you 
have been long an exile from your native country, 
though you have a natural sentiment for the old 
line of Kings. Is that clear, sir? Have you suffi¬ 
cient of the arts to pose as a virtuoso?” 

Alastair hoped that he had. 

“Then let us get the first plunge over. Suffer me 
to introduce you to the company.” 

The sound of their steps on the terrace halted 
the strollers. A lady turned, and at the sight of the 
young man her eyebrows lifted. She was a slight 
figure about the middle size, whose walking clothes 
followed the new bergere fashion. Save for her huge 
hooped petticoats, she was the dainty milkmaid, 
in her flowered chintz, her sleeveless coat, her flat 
straw hat tied with ribbons of cherry velvet, her 
cambric apron. A long staff, with ribbons at the 
crook, proclaimed.the shepherdess. She came toward 
them with a tripping walk, and Alastair marked the 
delicate bloom of her cheeks, unspoiled by rouge, 
the flash of white teeth as she smiled, the limpid 
depth of her great childlike eyes. His memory told 
him that the Duchess had passed her fortieth year, 
and his eyes saw a girl in her teens, a Flora of 
spring whose summer had not begun. 

“Kitty, I present to you Captain Maclean, a gen- 


44 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

tleman in the service of His Majesty of France. He 
has come to me on a mission from Paul de Tre- 
mouille—a mission of the arts.” 

The lady held out a hand. “Are you by any 
happy chance a poet, sir?” 

“I have made verses, madam, as young men do, 
- but I halt far short of poetry.” 

“The inspiration may come. I had hoped that 
Harry would provide me with a new poet. For 
you must know, sir, that I have lost all my poets. 
Mr Prior, Mr Gay, Mr Pope—they have all been 
gathered to the shades. I have no one now to make 
me verses.” 

“If your Grace will pardon me, your charms can 
never lack a singer.” 

“La, la! The singers are as dry as a ditch in 
midsummer. They sigh and gloom and write dole¬ 
ful letters in prose. I have to fly to Paris to find 
a well-turned sonnet. . . . Here we are so sage and 
dutiful and civically minded. Mary thinks only of 
her lovers, and Mr Murray of his law-suits, and 
Mr Kyd of his mortgage deeds, and Kit Lacy of 
fat cattle—nay, I do not think that Kit’s mind soars 
even to that height.” 

“I protest, madam,” began a handsome sheepish 
young gentleman behind her, but the Duchess cut 
him sort. 

“Harry!” she cried, “we are all Scotch here— 
all but you and Kit, and to be Scotch nowadays is 
to be suspect. Let us plot treason. The King’s 
Solicitor cannot pursue us, for he will be criminis 
particeps.” 

Mr Murray, a small man with a noble head and 
features so exquisitely moulded that at first sight 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 45 

most men distrusted him, pointed to an inscription 
cut on the entablature of the house. 

“Deus haec nobis otia fecit,” he read, in a voice 
whose every tone was clear as the note of a bell. 
“We dare not offend the genius loci, and outrage 
that plain commandment.” 

“But treason is not business.” 

“It is apt to be the most troublous kind of busi¬ 
ness, madam.” 

“Then Kit shall show me the grottos.” She put 
an arm in the young man’s, the other in the young 
girl’s, and forced them to a pace which was ill suited 
to his high new hunting boots. Alastair was for¬ 
mally introduced to the two men remaining, and had 
the chance of observing the one whom the Duchess 
had called Mr Kyd. He had the look of a country 
squire, tall, heavily built and deeply tanned by the 
sun. He had brown eyes, which regarded the world 
with a curious steadiness, and a mouth the corners 
of which were lifted in a perpetual readiness for 
laughter. Rarely had Alastair seen a more jovial 
and kindly face, which was yet redeemed from the 
commonplace by the straight thoughtful brows and 
the square cleft jaw. When the man spoke it was 
in the broad accents of the Scotch lowlands, though 
his words and phrases were those of the South. 
Lord Cornbury walked with Mr Murray, and the 
other ranged himself beside Alastair. 

“A pleasant habitation, you will doubtless be ob¬ 
serving, sir. Since you’re from France you may 
have seen houses as grand, but there’s not the like 
of it in our poor kingdom of Scotland. In the 
Merse, which is my country-side, they stick the 
kitchen-midden up against the dining-room window, 


46 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

and their notion of a pleasance is a wheen grosart 
bushes and gillyflowers sore scarted by hens.” 

Alastair looked round the flowery quincunx and 
the trim borders where a peacock was strutting 
amid late roses. 

“I think I would tire of it. Give me a sea loch 
and the heather and a burn among birchwoods.” 

“True, true, a man’s heart is in his calf-country. 
We Scots are like Ulysses, and not truly at home in 
Phaeacia.” He spoke the last word with the slight¬ 
est lift of his eyebrows, as if signalling to the other 
that he was aware of his position. “For myself,” 
he continued, “I’m aye remembering sweet Argos, 
which in my case is the inconsiderable dwelling of 
Greyhouses in a Lammermoor glen. My business 
takes me up and down this land of England, and I 
tell you, sir, I wouldn’t change my crow-step gables 
for all the mansions ever biggit. It’s a queer quirk 
in us mercantile folk.” 

“You travel much?” 

“I needs must, when I’m the principal doer of 
the Duke of Queensberry. My father was man of 
business to auld Duke James, and I heired the job 
with Duke Charles. If you serve a mighty prince, 
w T ho is a duke and marquis in two kingdoms and has 
lands and messuages to conform, you’re not much 
off the road. Horses’ iron and shoe-leather are 
cheap in that service. But my pleasure is at home, 
where I can read my Horace and crack with my 
friends and catch trout in the Whitader.” 

Mr Kyd’s honest countenance and frank geniality 
might have led to confidences on Alastair’s part, but 
at the moment Lord Cornbury rejoined them with 
word that dinner would be served in half an hour. 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 47 

As they entered the house, Alastair found himself 
beside his host and well behind the others. 

“Who is this Mr Kyd?” he whispered. “He 
mentioned Phaeacia, as if he knew my character.” 

Lord Cornbury’s face wore an anxious look. “He 
is my brother Queensberry’s agent. But he is also 
one of you. You must know of him. He is Mene - 
laus 

Alastair shook his head. “I landed from France 
only three weeks back, and know little of Mr Secre¬ 
tary Murray’s plans.” 

“Well, you will hear more of him. He is now on 
his way to Badminton, for he is said to have Beau¬ 
fort’s ear. His connection with my brother is a 
good shield. Lord! how I hate all this business of 
go-betweens and midnight conclaves!” He looked 
at his companion with a face so full of a quaint per¬ 
plexity that Alastair could not forbear to laugh. 

“We must creep, before we can fly, my lord, in 
the most honest cause. But our wings are fledging 

well.” ^ 

A footman led him to his room, which was in the 
old part of the house called the Leicester Wing, 
allotted to him, he guessed, because of its remote¬ 
ness. His baggage had been brought from the inn, 
and a porcelain bath filled with hot water stood on 
the floor. He shaved, but otherwise made no more 
than a traveller’s toilet, changing his boots for silk 
stockings and buckled shoes, and his bob for an 
ample tie-wig. The mirror showed a man not yet 
thirty, with small sharp features, high cheek bones, 
and a reddish tinge in skin and eyebrows. The eyes 
were of a clear, choleric blue, and the face, which 
was almost feminine in its contours, was made manly 


48 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

by a certain ruggedness and fire in its regard. His 
hands and feet were curiously small for one with so 
deep a chest and sinewy limbs. He was neat and 
precise in person and movement, a little finical at 
first sight, till the observer caught his quick ardent 
gaze. A passionate friend, that observer would 
have pronounced him, and a most mischievous and 
restless enemy. 

His Highland boyhood and foreign journeyings 
had not prepared him for the suave perfection of 
an English house. The hall, paved with squares 
of black and white marble, was hung with full- 
length pictures of the Hyde and Danvers families, 
and the great figures of the Civil War. The party 
assembled beneath them was a motley of gay colours 
—the Duchess in a gown of sky-blue above rose-pink 
petticoats; the young girl, whose name was Lady 
Mary Capell, all in green like a dryad; Mr Murray 
wore black velvet with a fuller wig than was the 
fashion of the moment; while Sir Christopher Lacy 
had donned the blue velvet and ermine collar of 
the Duke of Beaufort’s Hunt, a garb in which its 
members were popularly believed to sleep. Mr 
Kyd had contented himself with a flowered waist¬ 
coat, a plum-coloured coat and saffron stockings. 
Only the host was in sad colours, and, as he alone 
wore his natural hair, he presented a meagre and 
dejected figure in the flamboyant company. 

The Duchess talked like a brook. 

“Harry must show you the Vandykes,” she told 
Mr Murray. “He knows the age and tale of every 
one as I know my boys’ birthdays. I wish he would 
sell them, for they make me feel small and dingy. 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 49 

Look at them! We are no better than valets-de- 
chambre in their presence.” 

The major-domo conducted them to dinner, which 
was served in the new Indian Room. On the walls 
was a Chinese paper of birds and bowers and 
flower-hung pagodas; no pictures adorned them, but 
a number of delicately carved mirrors; and at in¬ 
tervals tall lacquer cabinets glowed on their gilt 
pedestals. The servants wore purple (“like bish¬ 
ops,” Mr Kyd whispered), and, since the room 
looked west, the declining October sun brought out 
the colours of wall and fabric and set the glasses 
and decanters shimmering on the polished table. 
Through the open windows the green slopes of the 
park lay bathed in light, and a pool of water spar¬ 
kled in the hollow. 

To Alastair, absorbed in his errand, the scene 
was purely phantasmal. He looked on as at a 
pretty pageant, heard the ladies’ tinkling laughter, 
discussed the manege in France at long range with 
Lord Cornbury, who was a noted horsemaster, an¬ 
swered Lady Mary’s inquiries about French modes 
as best he could, took wine with the men, had the 
-honour to toast the Duchess Kitty—but did it all 
in a kind of waking dream. This daintiness and 
ease were not of that grim world from which he had 
come, or of that grimmer world which was soon to 
be. . . . He noticed that no word of politics was 
breathed; even the Duchess’s chatter was discreet on 
that point. The ice was clearly too thin, and the 
most heedless felt the need of wary walking. Here 
sat the King’s Solicitor, and the wife of a Whig 
Duke cheek by jowl with two secret messengers 


50 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

bearing names out of Homer, and at the head of 
the table was one for whom both parties angled. 
The last seemed to feel the irony, for behind his 
hospitable gaiety was a sharp edge of care. He 
would sigh now and then, and pass a thin hand 
over his forehead. But the others—Mr Solicitor 
was discussing Mr Pope’s “Characters of Women” 
and quoting unpublished variants. No hint of 
embarrassment was to be detected in that mellow 
voice. Was he perhaps, thought Alastair, cog¬ 
nisant of the strange mixture at table, and not dis¬ 
approving? He was an officer of the Government, 
but he came of Jacobite stock. Was he not Stor¬ 
mont’s brother? . . . And Mr Kyd was deep in a 
discussion about horses with the gentleman in the 
Beaufort uniform. With every glass of claret the 
even rosiness of his face deepened, till he bloomed 
like the God of Wine himself—a Bacchus strictly 
sober, with very wide-awake eyes. 

Then to complete the comedy the catch he had 
heard on Otmoor began to run in Alastair’s head. 
Three naked men we he —a far cry from this be¬ 
decked and cosseted assemblage. He had a mo¬ 
ment of suffocation, until he regained his humour. 
They were all naked under their fine clothes, and 
for one of them it was his business to do the strip¬ 
ping. He caught Lord Cornbury’s eye and marked 
its gentle sadness. Was such a man content? Had 
he the assurance in his soul to listen to one who 
brought to him not peace but swords? 

The late autumn afternoon was bright and mild, 
with a thin mist rising from the distant stream. The 
company moved out-of-doors, where on a gravelled 
walk stood a low carriage drawn by a pair of cream- 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 51 

coloured ponies. A maid brought the Duchess a 
wide straw hat and driving gloves, and, while the 
others loitered at the garden door, the lady chose 
her companion. “Sa singularity” Mr Murray 
whispered. “It is young Mr Walpole’s name for 
her. But how prettily she plays the rustic!” 

“Who takes the air with me?” she cried. “I 
choose Captain Maclean. He is the newest of you, 
and can tell me the latest scandal of Versailles.” 

It was like an equipage fashioned out of Chelsea 
porcelain, and as Alastair took his place beside her, 
with his knees under a driving cloth of embroidered 
silk, he felt more than ever the sense of taking part 
in a play. She whipped up the ponies and they 
trotted out of the wrought-iron gates, which bounded 
the pleasance, into the wide spaces of the park. Her 
talk, which at first had been the agreeable prattle 
of dinner, to which he responded with sufficient 
ease, changed gradually to interrogatories. With 
some disquiet he realised that she was drifting to¬ 
wards politics. 

“What do they think in France of the young 
man’s taste in womankind?” she asked. 

He raised his eyebrows. 

“The Prince—Charles Stuart—the Chevalier. 
What of Jenny Cameron?” 

“We heard nothing of her in Paris, madam. You 
should be the better informed, for he has been some 
months on British soil.” 

“Tush, we hear no truth from the North. But 
they say that she never leaves him, that she shares 
his travelling carriage. Is she pretty, I wonder? 
Dark or fair?” 

“That I cannot tell, but whatever they be, her 


52 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

charms must be mature. I have heard on good 
authority that she is over forty years old.” 

It did not need the Duchess’s merry laughter to 
tell him that he had been guilty of a betise. He 
blushed furiously. 

“La, sir,” she cried, “you are ungallant. That 
is very much my own age, and the world does not 
call me matronly. I had thought you a courtier, 
but I fear—I gravely fear—you are an honest man.” 

They were now on the west side of the park, 
where a road led downhill past what had once been 
a quarry, but was now carved into a modish wilder¬ 
ness. The scraps of stone had been fashioned into 
grottos and towers and fantastic pinnacles; shrubs 
had been planted to make shapely thickets; springs 
had been turned to cascades or caught in miniature 
lakes. The path wound through midget Alps, which 
were of the same scale and quality as the chaise and 
the cream ponies and the shepherdess Duchess. 

“We call this spot Eden,” she said. “There are 
many things I would fain ask you, sir, but I remem¬ 
ber the consequence of Eve’s inquisitiveness and for¬ 
bear. The old Eden had a door and beyond that 
door lay the desert. It is so here.” 

They turned a corner by the edge of a small lake 
and came on a stout palisade which separated the 
park from Wychwood Forest. Through the high 
deer-gate Alastair looked on a country the extreme 
opposite of the enclosed paradise. The stream, 
which in the park was regulated like a canal, now 
flowed in rough shallows or spread into morasses. 
Scrub clothed the slopes, scrub of thorn and hazel 
and holly, with now and then an ancient oak flinging 
gnarled arms against the sky. In the bottom were 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 53 

bracken and the withered blooms of heather, where 
bees still hummed. The eye looked up little glens 
towards distant ridges to which the blue October 
haze gave the air of high hills. 

As Alastair gazed at the scene he saw again his 
own country-side. These were like the wild woods 
that cloaked Loch Sunart side, the wind brought 
him the same fragrance of heath and fern, he heard 
the croak of a raven, a knot of hinds pushed from 
the coppice and plashed through a marshy shallow. 
For a second his eyes filled with tears. 

He found the Duchess’s hand on his. It was a 
new Duchess, with grave kind face and no hint of 
petulance at her lips or artifice in her voice. 

“I brought you here for a purpose, sir,” she said. 
“You have before you two worlds—the enclosed 
garden and the wild beyond. The wild is yours, 
by birthright and training and choice. Beyond 
the pale is Robin Hood’s land, where men adven¬ 
ture. Inside is a quiet domain where they make 
verses and read books and cherish possessions—my 
brother’s land. Does my parable touch you?” 

“The two worlds are one, madam—one in God’s 
sight.” 

“‘In God’s sight, maybe, but not in man’s. I will 
be plainer still with you. I do not know your busi¬ 
ness, nor do I ask it, for you are my brother’s 
friend. But he is my darling and I fear a threat 
to his peace as a mother-partridge fears the coming 
of a hawk. Somehow—I ask no questions—you 
would persuade him to break bounds and leave 
his sanctuary for the wilds. It may be the manlier 
choice, but oh, sir, it is not for him. He is meant 
for the garden. His health is weak, his spirit is 


54 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

most noble but too fine for the slash of the rough 
world. In a year he would be in his grave.” 

Alastair, deeply perplexed, made no answer. He 
could not lie to this woman, nor could he make a 
confidante of the wife of Queensberry. 

“Pardon me if I embarrass you,” she went on. 
“I do not ask a reply. Your secrets would be safe 
with me, but if you told me them I should stop my 
ears. For politics I care nothing, I know nothing. 
I speak on a brother’s behalf, and my love for him 
makes me importunate. I tell you that he is made 
for the pleasance, not for the wilderness. Will you 
weigh my words?” 

“I will weigh them most scrupulously. Lord 
Cornbury is blessed in his sister.” 

“I am all he has, for he never could find a wife 
to his taste.” She whipped up the ponies and her 
voice changed to its old lightness. “La, sir, we must 
hasten. The gentlemen will be clamouring*for tea.” 

In the great gallery, among more Vandykes and 
Knellers and Lelys and panels of Mortlake tapestry, 
the company sipped tea and chocolate. The 
Duchess made tea with her own hands, and the 
bright clothes and jewels gleaming in the dusk 
against dim pictures had once more the airy unreal¬ 
ity of a dream. But Alastair’s mood had changed. 
He no longer felt imprisoned among potent shad¬ 
ows, for the glimpse he had had of his own familiar 
country had steadied his balance. He saw the life 
he had chosen in fairer colours, the life of toil and 
hazard and enterprise, in contrast with this airless 
ease. The blood ran quicker in his veins for the 
sight of a drugged and sleeping world. Ancient pos¬ 
sessions, the beauty of women, the joy of the senses 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 55 

were things to be forsworn before they could be 
truly admired. Now he looked graciously upon 
what an hour ago had irked him. 

When the candles were lit and the curtains drawn 
the scene grew livelier. The pretty Lady Mary, sit¬ 
ting under the Kneller portrait of her mother, was 
a proof of the changelessness of beauty. A pool 
was made at commerce, in which all joined, and the 
Duchess’s childlike laughter rippled through the talk 
like a trout-stream. She was in her wildest mood, 
the incomparable Kitty whom for thirty years every 
poet had sung. The thing became a nursery party, 
where discretion was meaningless, and her irrev¬ 
erent tongue did not refrain from politics. She 
talked of the Stuarts. 

“They intermarried with us,” she cried, “so I can 
speak as a kinswoman. A grave dutiful race—they 
were, tragically misunderstood. If their passions 
were fierce, they never permitted them to bias their 
statecraft.” 

A portrait of Mary of Scots hung above her as 
she spoke. Mr Murray cast a quizzical eye upon it. 

“Does your summary embrace that ill-fated 
lady?” he asked. 

“She above all. Her frailties were not Stuart but 
Tudor. Consider Harry the Eighth. He had pas¬ 
sions like other monarchs, but instead of keeping 
mistresses he must marry each successive love, and 
as a consequence cut off the head of the last one. 
His craze was not for amours but for matrimony. 
So, too, with his sister Margaret. So, too, with his 
great-niece Mary. She might have had a hundred 
lovers and none would have gainsaid her, but the 
mischief came when she insisted on wedding them. 


56 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

No! No! What ruined the fortunes of my kins¬ 
folk was not the Stuart blood but the Tudor—the 
itch for lawful wedlock which came in with the 
Welsh bourgeoisie.” 

“Your Grace must rewrite the histories,” said Mr 
Murray, laughing. 

“I have a mind to. But my Harry will bear me 
witness. The Stuart stock is sad and dutiful. Is 
not that the character of him who now calls himself 
the rightful King of England?” 

“So I have heard it said,” Lord Cornbury an¬ 
swered, but the eyes which looked at his sister were 
disapproving. 

The ladies went early to bed, after nibbling a 
sweet biscuit and sipping a glass of negus. Supper 
was laid for the gentlemen in the dining-room, and 
presently Mr Murray, Mr Kyd and Sir Christopher 
Lacy were seated at a board which they seemed to 
have no intention of leaving. Alastair excused 
himself on the plea of fatigue, and lit a bedroom 
candle. “I will come to your room,” his host whis¬ 
pered as they crossed the hall. “Do not undress. 
We will talk in my little cabinet.” 

The young man flung himself into a chair, and 
collected his thoughts. He had been chosen for this 
mission, partly because of his address and educa¬ 
tion, but mainly because of the fierce ardour which 
he had hitherto shown in the Prince’s cause. He 
knew that much hung on his success, for Cornbury, 
though nothing of a soldier and in politics no more 
than Member of Parliament for the University of 
Oxford, was so beloved that his adherence would 
be worth a regiment. He knew his repute. Such a 
man could not quibble in matters of principle; the 


■V. 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 57 

task was rather to transform apathy into action. 
He remembered the Duchess’s words—honest 
words, doubtless, but not weighty. Surely in so great 
a test of honour a man could not hesitate because 
his health was weak or his home dear to him. 

There was a knock at the door and Lord Corn- 
bury entered with a silk dressing-gown worn over his 
clothes. He looked round the room with his sad 
restless eyes. 

“Here Lord Leicester died—Elizabeth’s fa¬ 
vourite. They say that when the day of his death 
comes round his spirit may be heard tapping at the 
walls. It is a commentary on mortal ambition, Cap¬ 
tain Maclean. Come with me to my cabinet. Mr 
Solicitor is gone to bed, for he is ready enough for 
an all-night sitting at St James’s among the wits, 
but has no notion of spoiling his sleep by potations 
among bumpkins. Kit Lacy and Mr Kyd will keep 
it up till morning, but happily they are at the other 
end of the house.” 

He led the way down a narrow staircase to a little 
room on the ground floor, which had for its other 
entrance a door giving on a tiny paved garden. It 
was lined with books and a small fire had been lit 
on the hearth. 

“Here we shall be secure, for I alone have the 
keys,” Lord Cornbury said, taking a seat by a bu¬ 
reau where the single lamp was behind his head. 
“You have something private for my ear? I must 
tell you, sir, I have been plagued for many months 
by portentous secret emissaries. There was my lord 
Clancarty, a Cyclops with one eye and a shocking 
perupe, who seemed to me not wholly in posses¬ 
sion of his wits. There was a Scotch gentleman— 


58 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

Bahaldy—Bohaldy—whom I suspected of being a 
liar. There was Traquair, whose speech rang false 
in every stutter. They and their kind were full of 
swelling words, but they were most indisputably 
fools. You are not of their breed, sir. brom you 
I look for candour and good sense. What have you 
to say to me ?” 

“One thing only, my lord. From me you will 
get no boasts or promises. I bring you a sum¬ 
mons.” 

Alastair took from his breast a letter. Lord 
Cornbury broke the seal and revealed a page of 
sprawling irregular handwriting, signed at the foot 
with the words “Charles P.” He read it with atten¬ 
tion, read it again, and then looked at the messenger. 

“His Royal Highness informs me that I will be 
‘inexcusable before God and men’ if I fail him. For 
him that is a natural opinion. Now, sir, before 
answering this appeal, I have certain questions to 
ask you. You come from the Prince’s army, and 
you are in the secrets of his Cabinet. You are also 
a soldier. I would hear from you the Prince’s 
strength.” 

“He can cross the Border with not less than five 
thousand horse and foot.” 

“Highlanders?” 

“In the main, which means the best natural fight¬ 
ing stock in this land. They have already shown 
their prowess against Cope’s regulars. There are 
bodies of Lowland horse with Elcho and Pitsligo.” 

“And your hopes of increment?” 

“More than half the clans are still to raise. Of 
them we are certain. There are accessions to be 
looked for from the Lowlands. In England we 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 59 

have promises from every quarter—from Barry¬ 
more, Molyneux, Grosvenor, Fenwick, Petre, Chol- 
mondeley, Leigh, Curzon in the North; from the 
Duke of Beaufort and Sir Watkin Wynn in the 
West. Likewise large sums of money are warranted 
from the city of London.” 

“You speak not of sympathy only, but of troops? 
Many are no doubt willing to drink His Royal High¬ 
ness’s health.” 

“I speak of troops. There is also the certain aid 
from France. In this paper, my lord, you will find 
set down the numbers and dates of troops to be 
dispatched before Christmas. Some are already on 
the way—Lord John Drummond with his regiment 
of Royal Ecossais and certain Irish companies from 
the French service.” 

“And you have against you?” 

“In Scotland—nothing. In England at present 
not ten thousand men. Doubtless they will make 
haste to bring back troops from abroad, but before 
that we hope to conquer. His Royal Highness’s 
plan is clear. He seeks as soon as possible to win 
a victory in England. In his view the land is for 
the first comer. The nation is indifferent and will 
yield to boldness. I will be honest with you, my 
lord. He hopes also to confirm the loyalty of 
France, for it is certain that if his arms triumph but 
once on English soil, the troops of King Louis will 
take the sea.” 

The other mused. “It is a bold policy, but it may 
be a wise one. I would raise one difficulty. You 
have omitted from your calculation the British 
Fleet.” 

Alastair shrugged his shoulders. “It is our prime 


60 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

danger, but we hope with speed and secrecy to out¬ 
wit it.” 

“I have another objection. You are proposing to 
conquer England with a foreign army. I say not a 
word against the valour of your Highland country¬ 
men, but to English eyes they are barbarous 
strangers. And France is the' ancient enemy.” 

“Then, my lord, it is a strife of foreigner against 
foreigner. Are King George’s Dutch and Danes 
and Hessians better Englishmen than the Prince’s 
men? Let England abide the issue, and join the 
victor.” 

“You speak reasonably, I do not deny it. Let 
me ask further. Has any man of note joined your 
standard?” 

“Many Scots nobles, though not the greatest. 
But Hamilton favours us, and there are grounds 
for thinking that even the Whig dukes, Argyll and 
Montrose and Queensberry, are soured with the 
Government. It is so in England, my lord. Bed¬ 
ford . . .” 

“I know, I know. All are waiting on the tide. 
But meantime His Royal Highness’s Cabinet is a 
rabble of Irishmen. Is it not so? I do not like to 
have Teague in the business, sir, and England does 
not like it.” 

“Then come yourself, my lord.” 

Lord Cornbury smiled. “I have not finished my 
questions. What of His Royal Highness’s religion? 
I take it that it is the same as your own.” 

“He has already given solemn pledges for liberty 
and toleration. Many Presbyterians of the straitest 
sect are in his camp. Be sure, my lord, that he will 
not be guilty of his grandfather’s blunder.” 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 61 

Lord Cornbury rose and stood with his back to 
the fire. 

“You are still in the military stage, where your 
first duty is a victory in the field. What does His 
Royal Highness wish me to do? I am no soldier, 
I could not raise a dozen grooms and foresters. I 
do not live in Sir Watkin’s county, where you can 
blow a horn and summon a hundred rascals. Here 
in Oxfordshire we are peaceable folk.” 

“He wants you in his Council. I am no lover of 
the Irish, and there is sore need of statesmanship 
among us.” 

“Say you want me for an example.” 

“That is the truth, my lord.” 

“And, you would add, for statecraft. Then let 
us look at the matter with a statesman’s eye. You 
say truly that England does not love her Govern¬ 
ment. She is weary of foreign wars, and an alien 
Royal house, and gross taxes, and corruption in high 
places. She is weary, I say, but she will not stir to 
shift the burden. You are right; she is for the first 
comer. You bring a foreign army and it will fight 
what in the main is a foreign army, so patriotic feel¬ 
ing is engaged on neither side. If you win, the mal¬ 
contents, who are the great majority, will join you, 
and His Royal Highness will sit on the throne of 
his fathers. If you fail, there is no loss except to 
yourselves, for the others are not pledged. States¬ 
manship, sir, is an inglorious thing, for it must con¬ 
sider first the fortunes of the common people. 
No statesman has a right to risk these fortunes 
unless he be reasonably assured of success. There¬ 
fore I say to you that England must wait, and states¬ 
men must wait with England, till the issue is de- 


62 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

cided. That issue still lies with the soldiers. I 
cannot join His Royal Highness at this juncture, 
for I could bring no aid to his cause and I might 
bring needless ruin to those who depend on me. 
My answer might have been otherwise had I been 
a soldier.” 

A certain quiet obstinacy had entered the face 
which was revealed in profile by the lamp on the 
bureau. The voice had lost its gentle indeterminate¬ 
ness and rang crisp and clear. Alastair had knowl¬ 
edge enough of men to recognise finality. He made 
his last effort. 

“Are considerations of policy the only ones ? You 
and I share the same creeds, my lord. Our loyalty 
is owed to the House which has the rightful succes¬ 
sion, and we cannot in our obedience to God serve 
what He has not ordained. Is it not your duty to 
fling prudence to the winds and make your election 
before the world, for right is right whether we win 
or lose.” 

“For some men maybe,” said the other sadly, 
“but not for me. I am in that position that many 
eyes are turned on me and in my decision I must 
consider them. If your venture fails, I desire that 
as few Englishmen as possible suffer for it, it being 
premised that for the moment only armed men can 
help it to success. Therefore I wait, and will coun¬ 
sel waiting to all in like position. Beaufort can 
bring troops, and in God’s name I would urge him 
on, and from the bottom of my heart I pray for the 
Prince’s welfare.” 

“What will decide you, then?” 

“A victory on English soil. Nay, I will go far- 


A Nobleman is Perplexed 63 

ther. So soon as His Royal Highness is in the way 
of that victory, I will fly to his side.” 

“What proof will you require?” 

“Ten thousand men south of Derby on the road 
to London, and the first French contingent landed.” 

“That is your answer, my lord?” 

“That is the answer which I would have you 
convey with my most humble and affectionate duty 
to His Royal Highness. . . . And now, sir, will 
you join me in a turn on the terrace, as the night is 
fine. It is my habit before retiring.” 

The night was mild and very dark, and from the 
lake rose the honk of wild fowl and from the woods 
the fitful hooting of owls. To Alastair his failure 
was scarcely a disappointment, for he realised that 
all day he had lived in expectation of it. Nay, 
inasmuch as it placed so solemn a duty upon the 
soldiers of the Cause, it strung his nerves like a 
challenge. Lord Cornbury put an arm in his, and 
the sign of friendship moved the young man’s affec¬ 
tion. It was for youth and ardour such as his to 
make clear the path for gentler souls. 

They left the stones of the terrace and passed 
the lit window of the dining-room, where it appeared 
that merriment had advanced, for Sir Christopher 
Lacy was attempting a hunting-song. 

“Such are the squires of England,” whispered 
Cornbury. “They will drink and dice and wench 
for the Prince, but not fight for him.” 

“Not yet,” Alastair corrected. “But when your 
lordship joins us he will not be unattended.” 

They reached the corner of the house from which 
in daylight the great avenue could be seen, the spot 


64 A Nobleman is Perplexed 

where that morning Alastair had delivered his 
credentials. 

“I hear hooves,” said Cornbury, with a hand to 
his ear. “Nay, it is only the night wind.” 

“It is a horse,” said the other. “I have heard 
it for the last minute. Now it is entering the court¬ 
yard. See, there is a stable lantern.” 

A light swayed, and there was the sound of human 
speech. 

“That is Kyd’s Scotch servant,” Cornbury said. 
“Let us inquire into the errand of this night-rider.” 

As they moved towards the lantern a commotion 
began, and the light wavered like a ship’s lamp in a 
heavy sea. 

“Haud up, sir,” cried a voice. “Losh, the beast’s 
foundered, and the man’s in a dwam.” 


Chapter III 


IN WHICH PRIVATE MATTERS CUT ACROSS AFFAIRS 

OF STATE 

TN the circle of the lantern’s light the horseman, 
a big shambling fellow, stood swaying as if in 
extreme fatigue, now steadying himself by a hand 
on the animal’s neck, now using the support of the 
groom’s shoulder. His weak eyes peered and 
blinked, and at the sight of the gentlemen he made 
an attempt at a bow. 

u My lord!” he gasped with a dry mouth. “Do 
I address my lord Cornbury?” 

He did not wait for an answer. “‘I am from 
Chastlecote, my lord. I beg—I supplicate—a word 
with your lordship.” 

“Now?” 

“Now, if it please you. My business is most 
urgent. It is life or death, my lord, the happiness 
or despair of an immortal soul.” 

“You are the tutor from Chastlecote, I think. 
You appear to have been trying your beast high.” 

“I have ridden to Weston and to Heythrop since 
midday.” 

“Have you eaten?” 

“Not since breakfast, my lord.” The man’s eyes 
were wolfish with hunger and weariness. 

“Then you shall eat, for there can be no business 
between a full man and a fasting. The groom will 
see to your horse. Follow me.” 

65 


66 Private Matters Cut Across 

Lord Cornbury led the way past the angle of the 
house to where the lit windows of the dining-room 
made a glow in the dark. 

“ ’Tis a night of queer doings,” he whispered to 
Alastair, as they heard the heavy feet of the stranger 
stumbling behind them. “We will surprise Kit 
Lacy in his cups, but there will be some remnants of 
supper for this fellow. ’Pon my soul, I am curious 
to know what has shifted such a gravity out of bed.” 

He unlocked the garden-door and led the way 
through the great hall to the dining-room. Sir 
Christopher, mellow but still sober, was interrupted 
in a song, and, with admirable presence of mind, 
cut it short in a view holloa. Mr Kyd, rosy as the 
dawn, hastened to place chairs. 

“Your pardon, gentlemen, but I bring you a fam¬ 
ished traveller. Sit down, sir, and have at that pie. 
There is claret at your elbow.” 

The newcomer muttered thanks and dropped 
heavily into a chair. Under the bright candelabra, 
among crystal and silver and shining fruit and the 
gay clothes of the others, he cut an outrageous figure. 
He might have been in years about the age of Lord 
Cornbury, but disease and rough usage had wiped 
every sign of youth from his face. That face was 
large, heavily-featured and pitted deep with the scars 
of scrofula. The skin was puffy and grey, the eyes 
beneath the prominent forehead were pale and weak, 
the mouth was cast in hard lines as if from suffer¬ 
ing. His immense frame was incredibly lean and 
bony, and yet from his slouch seemed unwholesomely 
weighted with flesh. He wore his own hair, straight 
and lank and tied with a dusty ribbon. His clothes 
were of some coarse grey stuff and much worn, and, 


67 


Affairs of State 

though on a journey, he had no boots, but instead 
clumsy unbuckled shoes and black worsted stockings. 
His cuffs and neckband were soiled, and over¬ 
crowded pockets made his coat hang on him like a 
sack. Such an apparition could not but affect the 
best-bred gentleman. Kit Lacy’s mouth was drawn 
into a whistle, Mr Kyd sat in smiling contemplation. 
Alastair thought of Simon Lovat as he had last seen 
that vast wallowing chieftain, and then reflected 
that Simon carried off his oddity by his air of arro¬ 
gant command. This fellow looked as harassed as 
a mongrel that boys have chivvied into a corner. 
He cut himself a wedge of pie and ate gobblingly. 
He poured out a tankard of claret and swallowed 
most of it at a gulp. Then he grew nervous, choked 
on a crumb, gulped more claret and coughed till his 
pale face grew crimson. 

The worst pangs of hunger allayed, he seemed to 
recollect his errand. His lips began to mutter as if 
he were preparing a speech. His tired eyes rested 
in turn on each member of the company, on Lacy 
and Kyd lounging at the other side of the table, on 
Cornbury’s decorous figure at the head, on Alastair 
wrapped in his own thoughts at the foot. This was 
not the' private conference he had asked for, but it 
would appear that the urgency of his need must 
override discretion. A spasm of pain distorted the 
huge face, and he brought his left hand down vio¬ 
lently on the table, so that the glasses shivered. 

“My lord,” he said, “she is gone.” 

The company stared, and Sir Christopher tittered. 

“Who is your ‘she,’ sir?” he asked as he helped 
himself to wine. 

“Miss Grevel . . . Miss Claudia.” 


68 


Private Matters Cut Across 


The young baronet’s face changed. 

“The devil! Gone. Explain yourself, sir.” 

The man had swung round so that he faced Lord 
Cornbury, with his head screwed oddly over his 
right shoulder. As he spoke it bobbed in a kind of 
palsied eagerness. 

“You know her, my lord. Miss Claudia Grevel; 
the cousin and housemate of the young heir of 
Chastlecote, who has been committed to my charge. 
Three days ago she was of age and the controller 
of her fortune. This morning the maids found her 
bed unslept in, and the lady flown.” 

Lord Cornbury exclaimed. “Did she leave no 
word?” he asked. 

“Only a letter to her cousin, bidding him fare¬ 
well.” 

“Nothing to you?” 

“To me nothing. She was a high lady and to 
her I was only the boy’s instructor. But I had 
marked for some weeks a restlessness in her deport¬ 
ment and, fearing some rash step, I had kept an eye 
on her doings.” 

“You spied on her?” said Kyd sweetly. “Is that 
part of an usher’s duties?” 

The man was too earnest to feel the rudeness of 
the question. 

“She was but a child, sir,” he said. “She had 
neither father nor mother, and she was about to be 
sole mistress of a rich estate. I pitied her, and, 
though she in no way condescended to me, I loved 
her youth and beauty.” 

“You did right,” Lord Cornbury said. “Have 
your observations given you no clue to the secret 
of her flight?” 


69 


Affairs of State 

“In some measure, my lord. You must know that 
Miss Grevel is ardent in politics, and, like many 
gentlewomen, has a strong sentiment for the young 
Prince now in Scotland. She has often declared that 
if she had been a man she would long ago have 
hastened to his standard, and she was wont to rage 
against the apathy of the Oxfordshire squires. A 
scrap of news from the North would put her into a 
fury or an exaltation. There was one gentleman 
of the neighbourhood who was not apathetic and 
who was accordingly most welcome at Chastlecote. 
From him she had her news of the Prince, and it 
was clear by his manner towards her that he valued 
her person as well as shared her opinions. I have 
been this day to that gentleman’s house and found 
that at an early hour he started on a journey. I 
was ill received there and told little, but I ascer¬ 
tained that he had departed with a coach and led 
horses. My lord, I am convinced that the unhappy 
girl is his companion.” 

“The man’s name?” Lord Cornbury asked 
sharply. 

“Sir John Norreys of Weston.” 

The name told nothing to two of the company, 
but it had a surprising effect on Sir Christopher 
Lacy. He sprang to his feet, and began to stride 
up and down the room, his chin on his breast. 

“I knew his father,” said Lord Cornbury, “but 
the young man I have rarely seen. ’Tis a runaway 
match doubtless; but such marriages are not always 
tragical. Miss Grevel is too highly placed and well 
dowered for misadventure. Let us hope for the 
best, sir. She will return presently a sober bride.” 

“I am of your lordship’s opinion,” Mr Kyd 


70 Private Matters Cut Across 

observed with a jolly laugh. “Let a romantic 
maid indulge her fancy and choose her own way of 
wedlock, for if she get not romance at the start she 
will not find it in the dreich business of matrimony. 
But you and me, my lord, are bachelors and speak 
only from hearsay.” 

The tutor from Chastlecote seemed to be 
astounded at the reception of his news. 

“You do not know the man,” he cried. “It is 
no case of a youthful escapade. I have made in¬ 
quiries, and learned that he is no better than a 
knave. If he is a Jacobite it is for gain, if he weds 
Miss Grevel it is for her estate.” 

“Now what the devil should a dominie like you 
know about the character of a gentleman of 
family?” 

The words were harsh, but, as delivered by Mr 
Kyd with a merry voice and a twinkle of the eye, 
they might have passed as a robust pleasantry. 
But the tutor was not in the mood for them. Anger 
flushed his face, and he blew out his breath like a 
bull about to charge. Before he could reply, how¬ 
ever, he found an ally in Sir Christopher. The 
baronet flung himself again into his chair and stuck 
both elbows on the table. 

“The fellow is right all the same,” he said. 
“Jack Norreys is a low hound, and I’ll take my oath 
on it. No scamp is Jack, for his head is always cool 
and he has a heart like a codfish. He has a mighty 
good gift for liquor—I say that for him—but the 
damnable fellow profits by the generous frailties of 
his betters. He is mad for play, but he loves the 
cards like an attorney, not like a gentleman, and he 
makes a fat thing out of them. No, damme! 


71 


Affairs of State 

Jack’s no true man. If he wants the girl ’tis for 
her fortune, and if he sings Jacobite, ’tis because he 
sees some scoundrelly profit for himself. I hate the 
long nose and the mean eyes of him.” 

“You hear?” cried the tutor who had half risen 
from his seat in his excitement. “You hear the ver¬ 
dict of an honest man!” 

“You seem to know him well, Kit,” said Lord 
Cornbury, smiling. 

“Know him! Gad, I have had some chances. We 
were birched together at Eton, and dwelt in the 
same stairway at Christ Church. I once rode, a 
match with him on the Port Meadow and bled him 
for a hundred guineas, but he has avenged himself 
a thousandfold since then at the Bibury meetings. 
He may be Lord High Chancellor when I am in the 
Fleet, but the Devil will get him safe enough at the 

end.” 

Lord Cornbury looked grave, Mr Kyd wagged a 
moralising head. 

“The thing has gone too far to stop,” said the 
former. Then to the tutor: “What would you have 

me do?” . . 

The visitor’s uncouth hands were twisting them¬ 
selves in a frenzy of appeal. 

“My mistress at Chastlecote is old and bedridden, 

my charge is but a boy, and Miss Grevel has no rela¬ 
tives nearer than Dorset. I come to you as the 
leading gentleman in this shire and an upright and 
public-spirited nobleman, and I implore you to save 
that poor pretty child from her folly. They have 
gone north, so let us follow. It may not be too late 

to prevent the marriage.” 

“Ah, but it will be,” said Mr Kyd. They can 


72 Private Matters Cut Across 

find a hedge-parson any hour of the day to do the 
job for a guinea and a pot of ale.” 

“There is a chance, a hope, and, oh, sir, I be¬ 
seech you to pursue it.” 

“Would you have me mount and ride on the track 
of the fugitives?” Lord Cornbury asked. 

“Yes, my lord, and without delay. Grant me a 
chair to sleep an hour in, and I am ready for any 
labour. We can take the road before daybreak. 
It would facilitate our task if your lordship would 
lend me a horse better fitted for my weight.” 

The na'iveness of the request made a momentary 
silence. Then in spite of himself Alastair laughed. 
This importunate usher was on the same mission as 
himself, that mission which an hour earlier had con¬ 
clusively failed. To force their host into activity 
was the aim of both, but one whom a summons 
from a Prince had not moved was not likely to 
yield to an invitation to pursue a brace of green 
lovers. Yet he respected the man’s ardour, though 
he had set him down from his looks as a boor and 
an oddity; and regretted his laugh, when a dis¬ 
traught face was turned towards him, solemn and 
reproachful like a persecuted dog’s. 

Lord Cornbury’s eyes were troubled and his hands 
fidgeted with a dish of filberts. He seemed divided 
between irritation at a preposterous demand and his 
natural kindliness. 

“You are a faithful if importunate friend, sir. 
By the way, I have not your name.” 

“Johnson, my lord—Samuel Johnson. But my 
name matters nothing.” 

“I have heard it before. . . . Nay, I remem¬ 
ber. ... Was it Mr Murray who spoke of it? 


Affairs of State 73 

Tell me, sir, have you not published certain 
writings?” 

“Sir, I have made a living by scribbling.” 

“Poetry, I think. Was there not a piece on the 
morals of Town—in the manner of Juvenal?” 

“Bawdy, I’ll be bound,” put in Mr Kyd. He 
seemed suddenly to have grown rather drunk and 
spoke with a hiccough. 

The tutor looked so uncouth a figure for a poet 
that Alastair laughed again. But the poor man’s 
mind was far from humour, for his earnestness in¬ 
creased with his hearers’ cynicism. 

“Oh, my lord,” he cried, “what does it matter 
what I am or what wretched books I have fathered? 
I urge you to a most instant duty—to save a noble 
young lady from a degrading marriage. I press for 
your decision, for the need is desperate.” 

“But what can I do, Mr Johnson? She is of 
age, and they have broken no law. I cannot issue 
a warrant and hale them back to Oxfordshire. If 
they are not yet wed I have no authority to dis¬ 
suade, for I am not a kinsman, not even a friend. 
I cannot forbid the banns, for I have no certain 
knowledge of any misdeeds of this Sir John. I have 
no locus, as the lawyers say, for my meddling. But 
in any case the errand must be futile, for if you are 
right and she has fled with him, they will be married 
long ere we can overtake them. What you ask from 
me is folly.” 

The tutor’s face changed from lumpish eagerness 
to a lumpish gloom. 

“There is a chance,” he muttered. “And in the 
matter of saving souls a chance is enough for a 
Christian.” 


74 Private Matters Cut Across 

“Then my Christianity falls short of yours, sir,” 
replied Lord Cornbury sharply. 

The tutor let his dismal eyes dwell on the others. 
They soon left Mr Kyd’s face, stayed longer on 
Alastair’s, and came to rest on Sir Christopher’s, 
which was little less gloomy than his own. 

“You, sir,” he said, “you know the would-be 
bridegroom. Will you assist me to rescue the 
bride ?” 

The baronet for a moment did not reply and hope 
flickered in the other’s eyes. Then it died, for the 
young man brought down his fist on the table with 
an oath. 

“No, by God. If my lord thinks the business not 
for him, ’tis a million times too delicate for me. 
You’re an honest man, Mr usher, and shall hear my 
reason. I loved Miss Grevel, and for two years I 
dared to hope. Last April she dismissed me and I 
had the wit to see that ’twas final. What kind of 
figure would I cut galloping the shires after a scorn¬ 
ful mistress who has chosen another? I’d ride a 
hundred miles to see Jack Norreys’ neck wrung, but 
you will not catch me fluttering near the honeypot 
of his lady.” 

“You think only of your pride, sir, and not of the 
poor girl.” 

The tutor, realising the futility of his mission, 
rose to his feet, upsetting a decanter with an awk¬ 
ward elbow. The misadventure, which at an earlier 
stage would have acutely embarrassed him, now 
passed unnoticed. He seemed absorbed in his own 
reflections, and had suddenly won a kind of rude 
dignity. As he stood among them Alastair was 


Affairs of State 75 

amazed alike at his shabbiness and his self-posses¬ 
sion. 

“You will stay the night here, sir? The hour is 
late and a bed is at your disposal.” 

“I thank you, my lord, but my duties do not per¬ 
mit of sleep. I return to Chastlecote, and if I can 
get no helpers I must e’en seek for the lady alone. 

I am debtor to your lordship for a hospitality upon 
which I will not further encroach. May I beg the 
favour of a light to the stable?” 

Alastair picked up a branched candlestick and 
preceded the tutor into the windless night. The 
latter stumbled often, for he seemed purblind, but 
the other had no impulse to laugh, for toward this 
grotesque he had conceived a curious respect. The 
man, like himself, was struggling against fatted ease, 
striving to break a fence of prudence on behalf of 
an honourable hazard. 

Kyd’s servant brought the horse, refreshed 
by a supper of oats, and it was Alastair’s arm 
which helped the unwieldy horseman to the sad- 
dle. 

“God prosper you!” Alastair said, as he fitted a 

clumsy foot into a stirrup. 

The man woke to the consciousness of the other s 

presence. 

“You wish me well, sir? Will you come with 
me? I desire a colleague, for I am a sedentary 

man with no skill in travel.” 

“I only rest here for a night. I am a soldier on 
a mission which does not permit of delay.” 

“Then God speed us both!” The strange fellow 
pulled off his hat like a parson pronouncing bene- 


76 Private Matters Cut Across 

diction, before he lumbered into the dark of the 
avenue. 

Alastair turned to find Kyd behind him. He was 
exchanging jocularities with his servant. 

“Saw ye ever such a physiog, Edom?” he cried. 
“Dominies are getting crouse, for the body was 
wanting my lord to up and ride with him like a post¬ 
boy after some quean that’s ta’en the jee. He’s 
about as blate as a Cameronian preacher. My lord 
was uncommon patient with him. D’you not think 
so, Captain Maclean?” 

“The man may be uncouth, but he has a stout 
heart and a very noble spirit. I take off my hat to 
his fidelity.” 

The reply changed Mr Kyd’s mood from scorn to 
a melting sentiment. 

“Ay, but you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. 
It’s a noble-hearted creature, and we would all be 
better if we were liker him. Courage, did you say? 
The man with that habit of body, that jogs all day 
on a horse for the sake of a woman that has done 
nothing but clout his lugs, is a hero. I wish I had 
drunk his health.” 


Chapter IV 


MR KYD OF GREYHOUSES 

'KYEXT morning Alastair rode west, and for the 
V better part of a fortnight was beyond Severn. 
He met Sir Watkin at Wynnstay and Mr Savage in 
Lanthony vale, and then penetrated to the Pem¬ 
broke coast where he conferred with fisherfolk and 
shy cloaked men who gave appointments by the tide 
at nightfall. His task was no longer diplomacy, but 
the ordinary intelligence service of war, and he was 
the happier inasmuch as he the better understood it. 
If fortune favoured elsewhere, he had made plans 
for a French landing in a friendly country-side to 
kindle the West and take in flank the defences of 
London. Now, that errand done, his duty was with 
all speed to get him back to the North. 

On a sharp noon in the first week of November he 
recrossed Severn and came into Worcestershire, hav¬ 
ing slept at Ludlow the night before. His plan was 
to return as he had come, by the midlands and 
Northumberland, for he knew the road and which 
inns were safe to lie at. Of the doings of his Prince 
he had heard nothing, and he fretted every hour at 
the lack of news. As a trained soldier with some 
experience of war, he distrusted profoundly the 
military wisdom of Charles’s advisers, and feared 
daily to hear of some blunder which would cancel 
all that had already been won. 

He rode hard, hoping to sleep in Staffordshire 


78 Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

and next day join the road which he had travelled 
south three weeks before. An unobtrusive passenger 
known to none, knowing none, he took little pains 
to scan the visages of those he met. It was there¬ 
fore with some surprise that, as he sat in the tap- 
room of an ale-house at Chifney, he saw a face 
which woke some recollection. 

It was that of a tall, thin and very swarthy man 
who was engaged in grating a nutmeg into a pot of 
mulled ale. His clothes had the shabby finery of 
a broken-down gentleman, but the air of a minor 
stage-player which they suggested was sharply con¬ 
tradicted by his face. That was grave, strong al¬ 
most to hardness, and with eyes that would have 
dictated if they had not brooded. He gave Alastair 
good-day as he entered, and then continued his oc¬ 
cupation in such a way that the light from the win¬ 
dow fell very clearly upon his features. The pur¬ 
pose, which involved a change of position, was so 
evident that Alastair’s attention was engaged, and he 
regarded him over the edge of his tankard. 

The memory was baffling. France, London, 
Rome—he fitted nowhere. It seemed a far-back 
recollection, and not a coincidence of his present 
journey. Then the man raised his head, and his sad 
eyes looked for a moment at the window. The ges¬ 
ture Alastair had seen before—very long before—in 
Morvern. Into the picture swam other details: a 
ketch anchored, a sea-loch, a seafarer who sang so 
that the heart broke, a cluster of boys huddled on 
hot sand listening to a stranger’s tales. 

“The Spainneach!’’ he exclaimed. 

The man looked up with a smile on his dark face 
and spoke in Gaelic. “Welcome, heart’s darling,” 


79 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

he said—the endearment used long ago to the child 
who swam out to the foreign ship for a prize of 
raisins. “I have followed you for three days, and 
this morning was told of your inquiries, divined your 
route, and took a short cut to meet you here.” 

The picture had filled out. Alastair remembered 
the swarthy foreigner who came yearly at the tail 
of the harvest to enlist young men for the armies of 
Spain or France or the Emperor—who did not brag 
or bribe or unduly gild the prospect, but who, less 
by his tongue than by his eyes, drew the Morvern 
youth to wars from which few returned. An honest 
man, his father had named this Spainneach, but as 
secret in his ways as the woodcock blown shoreward 
by the October gales. 

“You have a message for me?” he asked, thinking 
of Cornbury. 

“A message—but from a quarter no weightier 
than my own head. You have been over long in the 
South, Sir Sandy.” The name had been the title 
given by his boyish comrades to their leader, and its 
use by this grave man brought to the chance meeting 
something of the intimacy of home. 

“That’s my own notion,” he replied. “But I 
am now by way of curing the fault.” 

“Then ride fast, and ride by the shortest road. 
There’s sore need of you up beyond.” 

“You have news,” Alastair cried eagerly. “Has 
His Highness marched yet?” 

“This very day he has passed the Border.” 

“How—by what route—in what strength?” 

“No great increase. He looks for that on the 
road.” 

“Then he goes by Carlisle?” 


80 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

The Spaniard nodded. “And Wade lies at New¬ 
castle,” he said. 

Alastair brought down his fist on the board 
so hard that the ale lipped from the other’s tank¬ 
ard. 

“The Devil take such blundering! Now t he has 
the enemy on his unprotected flank, when he might 
have destroyed him and won that victory on English 
soil which is the key to all things. Wade is old and 
doited, but he will soon have Cumberland behind 
him. Who counselled this foolishness? Not His 
Highness, I’ll warrant.” 

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. “No. His 
Highness would have made a bee-line for Newcastle. 
But his captains put their faith in Lancashire, and 
would have the honest men of North England in 
their ranks before they risked a battle. They pic¬ 
ture them as waiting, each with a thousand armed 
followers, till the first tartans are south of Shap, 
and then rushing to the standard.” 

Alastair, his brows dark with irritation, strode up 
and down the floor. 

“The fools have it the wrong way round. Eng¬ 
land will not rise to fight a battle, but only when a 
battle has been won. Wade at Newcastle was a 
sovran chance—and we have missed it. Blind! 
Blind! You are right, my friend. Not a second 
must I lose in pushing north to join my Prince. 
There are no trained soldiers with him save Lord 
George, and he had no more than a boyish year in 
the Royals. . . . You say he travels by Shap?” 

The Spaniard nodded. “And your course, Sir 
Sandy, must be through West England. Ride for 
Preston, which all Scots invasions must pass. Whit- 


81 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

church—Tarporley—Warrington are your stages. 
See, I will make you a plan.” 

On the dust of a barrel he traced the route, while 
Alastair did up the straps of his coat and drew on 
his riding gloves. His horse was brought, the law- 
ing paid, and as the young man mounted the other 
stood by his stirrup. 

“Where do you go?” Alastair asked. 

“Northward, like swallows in spring. But not 
yet awhile. I have still errands in these parts.” 

An ostler inspected the horse’s shoes, and Alastair 
sat whistling impatiently through his teeth. The 
tune which came to him was Midwinter’s catch of 
“The Naked Men.” The Spaniard started at the 
sound, and long after Alastair had moved off stood 
staring after him down the road. Then he turned to 
the house, his own lips shaping the same air, and 
cast a glance at the sign board. It showed a red 
dragon marvellously rampant on a field of green, 
and beneath was painted a rude device of an open 
eye. 

The chill misty noontide changed presently to a 
chillier drizzle, and then to a persistent downfall. 
Alastair’s eagerness was perforce checked by the 
weather, for he had much ado to grope his way in 
the maze of grassy lanes and woodland paths. 
Scarcely a soul was about—only a dripping labourer 
at a gate, and a cadger with pack-horses struggling 
towards the next change-house. He felt the solitude 
and languor of the rainy world, and at the same time 
his bones were on fire to make better speed, for sud¬ 
denly the space between him and the North seemed 
to have lengthened intolerably. The flat meadows 
were hideously foreign; he longed for a sight of hill 


82 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

or heath to tell him that he was nearing the North 
and the army of his Prince. He cursed the errand 
(that had brought him to this friendless land, far 
irom his proper trade of war. 

The November dusk fell soon, and wet greyness 
igave place to wet mirk. There was no moon, and to 
continue was to risk a lost road and a foundered 
horse. So, curbing his impatience, he resolved to 
lie the night at the first hostelry, and be on the move 
next day before the dawn. 

The mist thickened, and it seemed an intermina¬ 
ble time before he found a halting-place. The patch 
of road appeared to be uninhabited, without the 
shabbiest beerhouse to cheer it. Alastair’s patience 
was wearing very thin, and his appetite had waxed 
to hunger, before the sound of hooves and the 
speech of men told him that he was not left solitary 
on the globe. A tiny twinkle of light shone ahead, 
rayed by the falling rain, and, shrouded and dead¬ 
ened by the fog, came human voices. 

He appeared to be at a cross-roads, where the lane 
he had been following intersected a more considera¬ 
ble highway, for he blundered against a tall sign¬ 
post. Then, steering for the light, he all but col¬ 
lided with a traveller on horseback, who was en¬ 
gaged in talk with some one on foot. The horseman 
was on the point of starting, and the light, which 
was a lantern in the hand of a man on foot, gave 
Alastair a faint hurried impression of a tall young 
man muffled in a fawn-coloured riding-coat, with a 
sharp nose and a harsh drawling voice. The col¬ 
loquy was interrupted by his advent, the horseman 
moved into the rain, and the man with the lantern 
swung it up in some confusion. Alastair saw what 


83 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

he took for an ostler—a short fellow with a 
comically ugly face and teeth that projected like the 
eaves of a house. 

“Is this an inn, friend?” he asked. 

The voice which replied was familiar. 

“It’s a kind of a public, but the yill’s sma’ and 
wersh, and there’s mair mice than aits in the man¬ 
gers. Still and on, it’s better than outbye this nicht. 
Is your honour to lie here?” 

The man took two steps back and pushed open 
the inn door, so that a flood of light emerged, and 
made a half-moon on the cobbles. Now Alastair 
recognised the lantern-bearer. 

“You are Mr Kyd’s servant?” he said. 

“E’en so. And my maister’s in bye, waitin’ on 
his supper. He’ll be blithe to see ye, sir. See and 
I’ll tak your horse and bed him week Awa in wi’ ye 
and get warm, and I’ll bring your mails.” 

Alastair pushed open the first door he saw and 
found a room smoky with a new-lit fire, and by a 
table, which had been spread with the rudiments of 
a meal, the massive figure of Mr Nicholas Kyd. 

Mr Kyd’s first look was one of suspicion and his 
second of resentment; then, as the sun clears away 
storm clouds, benevolence and good fellowship 
beamed from his face. 

“God, but I’m in luck the day. Here’s an old 
friend arrived in time to share my supper. Come in 
by the fire, sir, and no a word till you’re warmed 
and fed. You behold me labouring to make up for 
the defeeciencies of this hostler wife with some 
contrivances of my own. An old campaigner like 
Nicol Kyd doesna travel the roads without sundry 
small delicacies in his saddle-bags, for in some of 


84 


Mr Kyd of Greyliouses 

these English hedge-inns a merciful man wouldna 
kennel his dog.” 

He was enjoying himself hugely. A gallon meas- 
are full of ale was before him, and this he was 
assiduously doctoring with various packets taken 
from a travelling-case that stood on a chair. “Small 
and sour,” he muttered as he tasted it with a ladle. 
“But here’s a pinch of soda to correct its acidity, 
and a nieve-full of powdered ginger-root to prevent 
colic. Drunk hot with a toast and that yill will no 
ken itself.” 

He poured the stuff into a mulling pot, and turned 
his attention to the edibles. “Here’s a wersh 
cheese,” he cried, “but a spice of anchovy will give 
it kitchen. I never travel without these tasty wee 
fishes, Captain Maclean. I’ve set the wife to make 
kail, for she had no meat in the house but a shank- 
end of beef. But I’ve the better part of a ham here, 
and a string of pig’s sausages, which I take it is the 
English equivalent of a haggis. Faith, you and me 
will no fare that ill. Sit you down, sir, if your legs 
are dry, for I hear the kail coming. There’s no 
wine in the place, but I’ll contrive a brew of punch 
to make up for it.” 

The hostess, her round face afire from her labours 
in the kitchen, flung open the door, and a slatternly 
wench brought in a steaming tureen of broth. More 
candles were lit, logs were laid on the fire, and the 
mean room took on an air of rough comfort. After 
the sombre afternoon Alastair surrendered himself 
gladly to his good fortune, and filled a tankard of 
the doctored ale, which he found very palatable. 
The soup warmed his blood and, having eaten noth¬ 
ing since morning, he showed himself a good trench- 


85 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

erman. Mr Kyd in the intervals of satisfying his 
own appetite beamed upon his companion, hospitably 
happy at being able to provide such entertainment. 

“It’s a thing I love,” he said, “to pass a night in an 
inn with a friend and a bottle. Coming out of the 
darkness to a warm fire and a good meal fair 
ravishes my heart, and the more if it’s unexpected. 
That’s your case at this moment, Captain Maclean, 
and you may thank the Almighty that you’re not 
supping off fat bacon and stinking beer. A lucky 
meeting for you. Now I wonder at what hostel 
Menelaus and Alcinous could have foregathered. 
Maybe, the pair of them went to visit CJlysses in 
Ithaca and shoot his paitricks. But it’s no likely.” 

“How did Menelaus prosper at Badminton?” 
Alastair asked. 

“Wheesht, man! We’ll get in the condiments for 
the punch and steek the door before we talk.” 

The landlady brought coarse sugar in a canister 
and half a dozen lemons, and placed a bubbling kettle 
on the hob. Mr Kyd carefully closed the door be¬ 
hind her and turned the key. With immense care 
and a gusto which now and then revealed itself in a 
verse of song, he poured the sugar into a great blue 
bowl, squeezed the lemons over it with his strong 
fingers, and added boiling water, with the quantities 
of each most nicely calculated. Then from a silver- 
mounted case-bottle he poured the approved modi¬ 
cum of whisky (“the real thing, Captain Maclean, 
that you’ll no find south of the Highland line”) and 
sniffed affectionately at the fragrant steam. He 
tasted the brew, gave it his benediction, and filled 
Alastair’s rummer. Then he lit one of the church¬ 
wardens which the landlady had supplied, stretched 


86 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

his legs to the blaze, and heaved a prodigious sigh. 

“If I shut my eyes I could believe I was at Grey¬ 
houses. That’s my but-and-ben in the Lammermuirs, 
sir. It’s a queer thing, but I can never stir from 
home without the sorest kind of homesickness. I 
was never meant for this gangrel job. . . . But if 
I open that window it will no be a burn in the howe 
and the peesweeps that I’ll hear, but just the weariful 
soughing of English trees. . . . There’s a lot of the 
bairn in me, Captain Maclean.” 

The pleasant apathy induced by food and warmth 
was passing from Alastair’s mind, and he felt anew 
the restlessness which the Spaniard’s news had 
kindled. He was not in a mood for Mr Kyd’s senti¬ 
ment 

“You will soon enough be in the North, I take it,” 
he said. 

“Not till the New Year, for my sins. I’m the 
Duke’s doer, and I must be back at Amesbury to see 
to the new planting.” 

“And the mission of Menelaus?” 

“Over for a time. My report went north a week 
syne by a sure hand.” 

“Successful?” 

Mr Kyd pursed his lips. “So-so.” He looked 
sharply towards door and window. “Beaufort is 
with us—on conditions. And you?” 

“I am inclined to be cheerful. We shall not lack 
the English grandees, provided we in the North play 
the game right.” 

“Ay. That’s gospel. You mean a victory in 
England.” 

Alastair nodded. “Therefore Alcinous has done 


87 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

with Phaeacia and returns to the Prince as fast as 
horse will carry him. But what does Menelaus in 
these parts? You are far away from Badminton 
and farther from Amesbury.” 

“I had a kind of bye-errand up this way. Now 
Pm on my road south again.” 

“Has the Cause friends hereabouts? I saw a. 
horseman at the door in talk with your servant.” 

Mr Kyd looked up quickly. “I heard tell of none. 
What was he like?” 

“I saw only a face in the mist—a high collar and 
a very sharp nose.” 

The other shook his head. “It beats me, unless 
it was some forwandered traveller that speired the 
road from Edom. I’ve seen no kenned face for a 
week, except”—and he broke into a loud guffaw— 
“except yon daft dominie we met at Cornbury—the 
man that wanted us all to mount and chase a runaway 
lassie. I passed him on the road yestereen mounted 
like a cadger and groaning like an auld wife.” 

Mr Kyd’s scornful reference to the tutor of 
Chastlecote slightly weakened in Alastair the friend¬ 
liness which his geniality had inspired. 

“It will be well for us if we are as eager in our 
duties as that poor creature,” he said dryly. “I 
must be off early to-morrow and not spare horse¬ 
flesh till I see the Standard.” 

“Ay, you maun lose no time. See, and I’ll make 
you a list of post-houses, where you can command 
decent cattle. It is the fruit of an uncommon ripe 
experience. Keep well to the east, for there’s poor 
roads and worse beasts this side of the Peak.” 

“That was the road I came, but now I must take 


88 


Mr Kyd of Greyliouses 

a different airt. I had news to-day—disquieting 
news. The Prince is over the Border.” 

Mr Kyd was on his feet, his chair scraping hard 
on the stone floor, and the glasses rattling on the 
•shaken table. 

“I’ve heard nothing of it. Man, what kind of 
news reaches you and not me?” 

“It is true all the same. I had it from one who 
came long ago to Morvern and knows my clan. This 
day His Highness crossed Liddel.” 

“Liddel!” Mr Kyd almost screamed. “Then he 
goes by Carlisle. But Wade’s at Newcastle.” 

“That is precisely the damnable folly of it. He is 
foregoing his chance of an immediate victory over a 
dotard—and a victory in England. God, sir, His 
Highness has been ill advised. You see now why I 
ride north hell-for-leather. I am a soldier of some 
experience and few of the Prince’s advisers have 
seen a campaign. My presence may prevent a more 
fatal error.” 

Mr Kyd’s face was a strange study. Officially it 
was drawn into lines of tragic melancholy, but there 
seemed to be satisfaction, even jubilation, behind the 
despair, and the voice could not escape a tremor of 
pleased excitement. Alastair, whose life at the 
French court had made him quick to judge the 
nuances of feeling, noted this apparent contradic¬ 
tion, and set it down to the eagerness of loyalty 
which hears at last that the Rubicon is crossed. 

“They will march through Lancashire,” said Mr 
Kyd, “and look to recruit the gentry. If so, they’re 
a sturdier breed up yonder than on the Welsh 

Marches-” He hesitated. “I wonder if you’re 

right in posting off to the North? Does this news 


» 



89 


Mr Kyd of Greyhouses 

not make a differ? What about Cornbury and Sir 
Watkin? Will the casting of the die not make up 
their minds for them? Faith, I think I’ll take 
another look in at Badminton.” 

Alastair saw in the other’s face only an earnest 
friendliness. 

“No, no,” he cried. “Nothing avails but the 
English victory. We must make certain of that. 
But do you, Mr Kyd, press the grandees of the 
Marches, while I prevent fools and schoolboys from 
over-riding the natural good sense of our Prince.” 

Mr Kyd had recovered his composure, and in¬ 
sisted on filling the rummer again for a toast to for¬ 
tune. The lines about his eyes were grave, but jollity 
lurked in the corners of his mouth. 

“Then you’ll take the west side of England and 
make for Warrington? Ay, that’s your quickest 
road. I’ll draw you an itinerarium, for I whiles 
travel that gait.” He scribbled a list on a leaf from 
a pocket-book and flung it to Alastair. “The morn’s 
night you lie at Flambury, and the third night you’ll 
be in Chester.” 

“Flambury,” Alastair exclaimed. “That takes me 
too far eastward.” 

“No, no. In this country the straight road’s apt 
to be the long road. There’s good going to Flam¬ 
bury, and the turnpike on to Whitchurch. You’ll lie 
there at the Dog and Gun, and if you speak my 
name to the landlord you’ll get the best in his 
house. . . . Man, I envy you, for you’ll be among 
our own folk in a week. My heart goes with you, 
and here’s to a quick journey.” 

Alastair was staring into the fire, and turned more 
suddenly than the other anticipated. Mr Kyd’s face 


90 


Mr Kyd of Greyliouses 

was in an instant all rosy goodwill, but for just that 
one second he was taken by surprise, and something 
furtive and haggard looked from his eyes. This 
something Alastair caught, and, as he snuggled be¬ 
tween the inn blankets, the memory of it faintly 
clouded his thoughts, like a breath on a mirror. 


Chapter V 

CHANCE-MEDLEY 


TN his dreams Alastair was persistently conscious 
of Mr Kyd’s face, which hung like a great sun in 
that dim landscape. Fresh-coloured and smiling at 
one moment, it would change suddenly to a thing 
peaked and hunted, with aversion and fear looking 
out of narrow eyes. And it mixed itself oddly with 
another face, a pale face framed in a high coat collar, 
and adorned with a very sharp nose. It may have 
been the supper or it may have been the exceeding 
hardness of the bed, but his sleep was troubled, and 
he woke with that sense of having toiled furiously 
which is the consequence of nightmare. He had for¬ 
gotten the details of his dreams, but one legacy re¬ 
mained from them—a picture of that sharp-nosed 
face, and the memory of Mr Kyd’s open countenance 
as he had surprised it for one second the night be¬ 
fore. As he dressed the recollection paled, and 
presently he laughed at it, for the Mr Kyd who now 
presented himself to his memory was so honest and 
generous and steadfast that the other picture seemed 
too grotesque even for a caricature. 

On descending to breakfast he found, though the 
day was yet early, that his companion had been up 
and gone a good hour before. Had he left a mes¬ 
sage? The landlady said no. What road had he 
taken? The answer was a reference to a dozen 

unknown place names, for countryfolk identify a 

91 


92 


Chance-Medley 

road by the nearest villages it serves. Mr Kyd’s 
energy roused his emulation. He breakfasted 
hastily, and twenty minutes later was on the road. 

The mist had cleared, and a still November morn 
opened mild and grey over a flat landscape. The 
road ran through acres of unkempt woodlands where 
spindlewood and briars glowed above russet bracken, 
and then over long ridges of lea and fallow, where 
glimpses were to be had of many miles of smoky- 
brown forest, with now and then a slender wedge of 
church steeple cutting the low soft skies. Alastair 
hoped to get a fresh horse at Flambury which would 
carry him to Chester, and as his present beast had 
come far, he could not press it for all his impatience. 
So as he jogged through the morning his thoughts 
had leisure to wander, and to his surprise he found 
his mind enjoying an unexpected peace. He was 
very near the brink of the torrent; let him make the 
most of these last yards of solid land. The stormy 
October had hastened the coming of winter, and the 
autumn scents had in most places yielded to the 
strong clean fragrance of a bare world. It was the 
smell he loved, whether he met it in Morvern among 
the December mosses, or on the downs of Picardy, 
or in English fields. At other times one smelled 
herbage and flowers and trees; in winter one 
savoured the essential elements of water and earth. 

In this mood of content he came after midday to a 
large village on the borders of Stafford and Shrop¬ 
shire, where he halted for a crust and a jug of ale. 
The place was so crowded that he judged it was 
market day, and the one inn had a press about its 
door like the visiting hours at a debtors’ prison. 
He despaired of forcing an entrance, so commis- 


93 


Chance-Medley 

sioned an obliging loafer to fetch him a tankard, 
while he dismounted, hitched his bridle to the sign¬ 
post, and seated himself at the end of a bench which 
ran along the inn’s frontage. 

The ale was long in coming, and Alastair had 
leisure to observe his neighbours. They were a re¬ 
markable crowd. Not villagers clearly, for the 
orthodox inhabitants might be observed going about 
their avocations, with many curious glances at the 
strangers. They were all sizes and shapes, and in 
every variety of dress from fustian to camlet, but all 
were youngish and sturdily built, and most a trifle 
dilapidated. The four men who sat on the bench 
beside him seemed like gamekeepers out of employ, 
and were obviously a little drunk. In the throng at 
the door there were horse-boys and labourers and 
better-clad hobbledehoys who might have been the 
sons of yeomen. A raffish young gentleman with a 
greyhound and with a cock of his hat broken was 
engaged in an altercation with an elderly fellow who 
had a sheaf of papers and had mounted a pair of 
horn spectacles to read them. Through the open 
window of the tap-room floated scraps of argument 
in a dozen varieties of dialect. 

Alastair rubbed his eyes. Something in the sight 
was familiar. He had seen it in Morvern, in the 
Isles, in a dozen parts of France and Spain, when 
country fellows were recruited for foreign armies. 
But such things could not be in England, where the 
foreign recruiter was forbidden. Nor could it be 
enlistment for the English regiments, for where were 
the bright uniforms and the tuck of drums? The 
elderly man with the papers was beyond doubt a 
soldier, but he had the dress of an attorney’s clerk. 


94 Chance-Medley 

There was some queer business afoot here, and 
Alastair set himself to probe it. 

His neighbour on the bench did not understand 
his question. But the raffish young man with the 
greyhound heard it, and turned sharply to the 
speaker. A glance at Alastair made his voice civil. 

“Matter!” he exclaimed. “The matter, sir, is that 
I and some two-score honest men have been grossly 
deceived. We are of Oglethorpe’s, enlisted to fight 
the Spaniard in the Americas. And now there is 
word that we are to be drafted to General Wade, as 
if we were not gentleman-venturers but so many ham¬ 
handed common soldiers. Hark, sir!” 

From within the inn came a clatter of falling 
dishes and high voices. 

“That will be Black Benjamin warming to work,” 
said the young man, proffering a pewter snuff-box 
in which there remained a few grains of rappee. 
“He is striving in there with the Quartermaster- 
Sergeant while I seek to convince Methody Sam here 
of the deceitfulness of his ways.” 

The elderly man, referred to as Methody Sam, put 
his spectacles in his pocket, and revealed a mahogany 
face lit by two bloodshot blue eyes. At the sight of 
Alastair he held himself at attention, for some in¬ 
stinct in him discerned the soldier. 

“I ain’t denyin’ it’s a melancholy business, sir,” he 
said, “and vexatious to them poor fellows. They 
was recruited by Gen’ral Oglethorpe under special 
permission from His Majesty, God bless ’im, for the 
dooty of keeping the Spaniards out of His Majesty’s 
territory of Georgia in Ameriky, for which purpose 
they ’as signed on for two years, journeys there and 
back included, at the pay of one shilling per lawful 


95 


Chance-Medley 

day, and all vittles and clothing provided ’andsome. 
But now ’Is Majesty thinks better on it, and is 
minded to let Georgia slip and send them lads to 
Gen’ral Wade to fight the Scotch. It’s a ’ard pill 
to swallow, I ain’t denyin’ it, but orders is orders, 
and I ’ave them express this morning from Gen’ral 
Oglethorpe, who is a-breakin’ the news to the Shrop¬ 
shire Companies.” 

One of the drunkards on the bench broke into a 
flood of oaths which caused Methody Sam to box his 
ears. “Ye was enlisted for a pious and honourable 
dooty, and though that dooty may be changed the 
terms of enlistment is the same. No foul mouth is 
permitted ’ere, my lad.” 

The young gentleman with the greyhound was 
listening eagerly to what was going on indoors. 
“Benjamin’s getting his dander up,” he observed. 
“Soon there will be bloody combs going. Hi! 
Benjy!” he shouted. “Come out and let’s do the job 
fair and foursquare in the open. It’s a high and 
holy mutiny.” 

There was no answer, but presently the throng at 
the door began to fan outward under pressure from 
within. A crowd of rough fellows tumbled out, and 
at their tail a gypsy-looking youth with a green 
bandana round his head, dragging a small man, who 
had the air of having once been in authority. Alas- 
tair recognised the second of the two non-commis¬ 
sioned officers, but while one had protested against 
oaths the other was filling the air with a lurid assort¬ 
ment. This other had his hands tied with a kerchief, 
and a cord fastening the joined palms to his knees, so 
that he presented a ridiculous appearance of a man 
at his prayers. 


96 Chance-Medley 

“Why hain’t ye trussed up Methody?” the gypsy 
shouted to the owner of the greyhound. 

The sergeant cast an appealing eye on Alastair. 
There seemed to be no arms in the crowd, except 
a cudgel or two and the gypsy’s whinger. It was an 
appeal which the young man’s tradition could not 
refuse. 

“Have patience, gentlemen,” he cried. “I cannot 
have you prejudging the case. Forward with your 
prisoner, but first untie these bonds. Quick.” 

The gypsy opened his mouth in an insolent refusal, 
when he saw something in the horseman’s eye which 
changed his mind. Also he noted his pistols, and 
his light travelling sword. 

“That’s maybe fair,” he grunted, and with his 
knife slit his prisoner’s bonds. 

“Now, out with your grievances.” 

The gypsy could talk, and a very damning indict¬ 
ment he made of it. “We was ’listed for overseas, 
with good chance of prize money, and a nobleman’s 
freedom. And now we’re bidden stop at home as if 
we was lousy lobsters that took the King’s money to 
trick the gallows. Is that fair and English, my sweet 
pretty gentleman? We’re to march to-morrow 
against the naked Highlanders that cut out a man’s 
bowels with scythes, and feed their dogs with his 
meat. Is that the kind of fighting you was dreaming 
of, my precious boys? No, says you, and we’ll be 
damned, says you, if we’ll be diddled. Back we goes 
to our pretty homes, but with a luckpenny in our 
pocket for our wasted time and our sad disappoint¬ 
ment. Them sergeants has the money, and we’ll 
hold them upside down by the heels till we shake it 
out of them.” 


Chance-Medley 97 

Methody Sam replied, looking at Alastair. “It’s 
crool ’ard, but orders is orders. Them folks enlisted 
to do the King’s commands and if ’Is Majesty 
’appens to change ’is mind, it’s no business o’ theirs 
or mine. The money me and Bill ’as is Government 
money, and if they force it from us they’ll be appre¬ 
hended and ’anged as common robbers. I want to 
save their poor innocent souls from ’anging felony.” 

The crowd showed no desire for salvation. There 
was a surge towards the two men and the gypsy’s 
hand would have been on the throat of Methody 
Sam had not Alastair struck it up. The smaller of 
the two non-commissioned officers was chafing his 
wrists, which his recent bonds had abraded, and la¬ 
menting that he had left his pistols at home. 

“What made you come here with money and 
nothing to guard it?” Alastair asked. 

“The Gen’ral’s orders, sir. But it was different 
when we was temptin’ them with Ameriky and the 
Spaniards’ gold. Now we’ll need a file o’ loaded 
muskets to get ’em a step on the road. Ay, sir, 
we’ll be fort’nate if by supper time they’ve not all 
scattered like a wisp o’ snipes, takin’ with ’em ’Is 
Majesty’s guineas.” 

“Keep beside me !” Alastair whispered. A sudden 
rush would have swept the little man off, had not 
Methody Sam plucked him back. 

“Better yield quiet,” said the gypsy. “We don’t 
want no blood-lettin’, but we’re boys as is not to be 
played with. Out with the guineas, tear up the 
rolls, and the two of ye may go to Hell for all we 
care.” 

“What are you going to do?” Alastair asked his 
neighbours. 


98 Chance-Medley 

The little man looked bleakly at the crowd. 
“There don’t seem much of a chance, but we’re 
bound to put up a fight, seein’ we’re in charge of ’Is 
Majesty’s property. That your notion, Sam?” 

The Methody signified his assent by a cheerful 
groan. 

“Then I’m with you,” said Alastair. “To the 
inn wall? We must get our backs protected.” 

The suddenness of the movement and the glint of 
Alastair’s sword opened a way for the three to a re¬ 
entrant angle of the inn, where their flanks and rear 
were safe from attack. Alastair raised his voice. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “as a soldier I cannot per¬ 
mit mutiny. You will not touch a penny of His 
Majesty’s money, and you will wait here on General 
Oglethorpe’s orders. If he sees fit to disband you, 
good and well; if not, you march as he commands.” 

Even as he spoke inward laughter consumed him. 
He, a follower of the Prince, was taking pains that 
certain troops should reach Wade, the Prince’s 
enemy. Yet he could not act otherwise, for the 
camaraderie of his profession constrained him. 

The power of the armed over the unarmed was 
in that moment notably exemplified. There was 
grumbling, a curse or two, and sullen faces, but no 
attempt was made to rush that corner where stood 
an active young man with an ugly sword. The mob 
swayed and muttered, the gypsy went off on an 
errand behind the inn, one of the drunkards lurched 
forward as if to attack and fell prone. A stone or 
two was thrown, but Alastair showed his pistols, 
and that form of assault was dropped. The crowd 
became stagnant, but it did not disperse. 

“I must get on to Flambury,” Alastair told his 


Chance-Medley 99 

neighbours. “I cannot wait all day here. There is 
nothing for it but that you go with me. My pistols 
will get us a passage to my horse yonder, and we can 
ride and tie.” 

The plan was never put into action. For at the 
moment from a window over their heads descended 
a shower of red-hot embers. All three leaped for¬ 
ward to avoid a scorching and so moved outside the 
protecting side wall. Then, neatly and suddenly, the 
little man called Bill was plucked up and hustled into 
the crowd. Alastair could not fire or draw upon a 
circle of gaping faces. He looked furiously to his 
right, when a cry on his left warned him that the 
Methody also had gone. 

But him he could follow, for he saw the boots of 
him being dragged inside the inn door. Clearing his 
way with his sword, he rushed thither, stumbling 
over the greyhound and with a kick sending it flying. 
There were three steps to the door, and as he 
mounted them he obtained a view over the heads of 
the mob and down the village street. He saw his 
horse still peacefully tethered to the signpost, and 
beyond it there came into view a mounted troop 
clattering up the cobbles. 

The door yielded to his foot and he received in 
his arms the Methody, who seemed to have made 
his escape from his captors. “They’ve got Bill in 
the cellar,” he gasped. “It’s that Gypsy Ben.” And 
then he was stricken dumb at something which he 
saw below Alastair’s armpits. 

The crowd had scattered and its soberer members 
now clustered in small knots with a desperate effort 
at nonchalance. Opposite the inn door horsemen 
had halted, and the leader, a tall man with the black 


100 


Chance-Medley * 

military cockade in his hat, was looking sternly at 
the group, till his eye caught the Methody. “Ha! 
Sewell,” he cried, and the Methody, stricken into a 
ramrod, stood erect before him. 

“These are recruits of ours?” he asked. “You 
have explained to them the new orders?” 

“Sir,” said the ramrod, raising his voice so that 
all could hear, “I have explained, as in dooty bound, 
and I ’ave to report that, though naturally disap¬ 
pointed, they bows to orders, all but a gypsy rapscal¬ 
lion, of whom we be well quit. I ’ave likewise to 
report that Bill and me ’as been much assisted by 
this gentleman you sees before you, without whom 
things might ’ave gone ugly.” 

The tall soldier’s eyes turned towards Alastair 
and he bowed. 

“I am in your debt, sir. General Oglethorpe is 
much beholden to you.” 

“Nay, sir, as a soldier who chanced upon a diffi¬ 
cult situation I had no choice but to lend my poor 
aid.” 

The General proffered his snuff-box. “Of which 
regiment?” 

“Of none English. My service has been outside 
my country, on the continent of Europe. I am born 
a poor Scottish gentleman, sir, whose sword is his 
livelihood. They call me Maclean.” 

General Oglethorpe looked up quickly. “A most 
honourable livelihood. I too have carried my sword 
abroad—to the Americas, as you may have heard. 
I was returning thither, but I have been intercepted 
for service in the North. Will you dine with me, 
sir? I should esteem your company.” 

“Nay, I must be on the road,” said Alastair. 


101 


Chance-M edley 

“Already I have delayed too long. I admire your 
raw material, sir, but I do not covet your task of 
shaping it to the purposes of war.” 

The General smiled sourly. “In Georgia they 
would have been good soldiers in a fortnight. Here 
in England they will be still raw after a year’s cam¬ 
paigning.” 

They parted with elaborate courtesies, and look¬ 
ing back, Alastair saw what had five minutes before 
been an angry mob falling into rank under General 
Oglethorpe’s eye. He wondered what had become 
of Ben the Gypsy. 

Flambury proved but a short two-hours’ journey. 
It was a large village with a broad street studded 
with ancient elm trees, and, as Alastair entered it, 
that street was thronged like a hiring fair. The 
noise of human voices, of fiddles and tabrets and of 
excited dogs, had greeted him half a mile off, like 
the rumour of a battlefield. Wondering at the cause 
of the din, he wondered more when he approached 
the houses and saw the transformation of the place. 
There were booths below the elm trees, protected 
from possible rain by awnings of sacking, where 
ribands and crockery and cheap knives were being 
vended. Men and women, clothed like mummers, 
danced under the November sky as if it had been 
May-day. Games of chance were in progress, for¬ 
tunes were being spae’d, fairings of gingerbread 
bought, and, not least, horses sold to the accompani¬ 
ment of shrill cries from stable boys and the whinny- 
ings of startled colts and fillies. The sight gave 
Alastair a sense of security, for in such an assem¬ 
blage a stranger would not be questioned. He asked 
a woman what the stir signified. “Lawk a mussy, 


102 Chance-M edley 

where be you borned,” she said, “not to know ’tis 
Flambury Feast-Day?” 

The Dog and Gun was easy to find. Already the 
darkness was falling, and while the street was lit 
with tarry staves, the interior of the hostelry glowed 
with a hundred candles. The sign was undecipher¬ 
able in the half light, but the name in irregular let¬ 
ters was inscribed above the ancient door. Alastair 
rode into a courtyard filled with chaises and farmers’ 
carts, and having with some difficulty found an ostler, 
stood over him while his horse was groomed, fed and 
watered. Then he turned to the house, remember¬ 
ing Mr Kyd’s recommendation to the landlord. If 
that recommendation could procure him some pri¬ 
vacy in this visit, fortunate would have been his 
meeting with the laird of Greyhouses. 

The landlord, discovered not without difficulty, 
was a lusty florid fellow, with a loud voice and a 
beery eye. He summoned the traveller into his own 
parlour, behind the tap-room, from which all day 
his bustling wife directed the affairs of the house. 
The place was a shrine of comfort, with a bright fire 
reflected in polished brass and in bottles of cordials 
and essences which shone like jewels. The wife at a 
long table was mixing bowl after bowl of spiced 
liquors, her face glowing like a moon, and her nose 
perpetually wrinkled in the task of sniffing odours to 
detect the moment when the brew was right. The 
husband placed a red-cushioned chair for Alastair, 
and played nervously with the strings of his apron. 
It occurred to the traveller that the man had greeted 
him as if he had been expected, and at this he 
wondered. 

The name of Mr Kyd was a talisman that wrought 


Chance-Medley 103 

mightily upon the host’s goodwill, but that goodwill 
was greater than his powers. 

“Another time and the whole house would have 
been at your honour’s service,” he protested. “But 

to-day-” and he shrugged his shoulders. “Oh,you 

shall have a bed, though I have to lie myself on bare 
boards, but a private room is out of my power. 
We’ve but the three of them, and they’re all as 
throng as a bee-hive. There’s Tom Briggs in the 
Blue Room, celebrating the sale of his string of 
young horses—an ancient engagement, sir; and 
there’s the Codgers’ Supper in the Gents’ Attic, and 
in Shrewsbury there’s five pig dealers sleeping on 
chairs. That’s so, mother?” 

“Six in Shrewsbury,” said the lady, “and there’s 
five waiting on the Attic, as soon as the Codgers 
have supped.” 

“You see, sir, how I’m situated. You’ll have a 
good bed to yourself, but I fear I must ask you to 
sup in the bar parlour with the other gentry that’s 
here to-day. Unless your honour would prefer the 
kitchen?” he added hopefully. 

Alastair, who had a vision of a company of 
drunken squirelings of an inquisitive turn, announced 
that he would greatly prefer the kitchen. The de¬ 
cision seemed to please the landlord. 

“There’s a good fire and not above half a dozen 
for company at present. Warm yourself there, sir, 
and your supper will be ready before your feet are 
comforted. A dish of pullets and eggs, mutton 
chops, a prime ham, a good cut of beef, and the best 
of double Gloucester. What say you to that now? 
And for liquor a bowl of mother’s spiced October, 
with a bottle of old port to go with the cheese.” 



104 Chance-Medley 

Alastair was hungry enough to approve of the lot, 
and tired and cold enough to welcome the chance of 
a roaring kitchen hearth. In the great shadowy 
place, the rafters loaded with hams and the walls 
bright with warming-pans, there was only a handful 
of topers, since the business out-of-doors was still too 
engrossing. The landlord was as good as his word, 
and within half an hour the traveller was sitting 
down to a most substantial meal at the massive 
board. The hostess’s spiced October was delicate 
yet potent, the port thereafter—of which the host 
had a couple of glasses—a generous vintage. The 
young man at length drew his chair from the table 
to the fireside and stretched his legs to the blaze, 
replete and comfortable in body, and placid, if a 
little hazy, in mind. . . . Presently the leaping 
flames of the logs took odd shapes; the drone of 
voices from the corner became surf on a shore: he 
saw a fire on a beach and dark hills behind it, and 
heard the soft Gaelic of his kin. . . . His head 
nodded on his breast and he was sound asleep. 

He woke to find an unpleasant warmth below his 
nose and to hear a cackle as of a thousand geese in 
his ears. Something bright and burning was close to 
his face. He shrank from it and at once sprawled 
on his back, his head bumping hard on the stone 
floor. 

The shock thoroughly awakened him. As he 
sprang to his feet he saw a knot of flushed giggling 
faces. One of the group had been holding a red-hot 
poker to his face, while another had drawn away the 
chair from beneath him. 

His first impulse was to buffet their heads, for no 
man is angrier than a sleeper rudely awakened. 


Chance-Medley 105 

The kitchen was now crowded, and the company 
seemed to appreciate the efforts of the practical 
jokers, for there was a roar of applause and shouts 
of merriment. The jokers, who from their dress 
were hobbledehoy yeomen or small squires, were 
thus encouraged to continue, and, being apparently 
well on the way to drunkenness, were not dis¬ 
posed to consider risks. Two of them wore swords, 
but it was clear that the sword was not their wea¬ 
pon. 

Alastair in a flaming passion had his hand on his 
blade, when his arm was touched from behind and 
a voice spoke. “Control your temper, sir, I beseech 
you. This business is premeditated. They seek to 
fasten a quarrel on you. Don’t look round. Smile 
and laugh with them.” 

The voice was familiar though he could not put a 
name to it. A second glance at the company con¬ 
vinced him that the advice was sound and he forced 
himself to urbanity. He took his hand from his 
sword, rubbed his eyes like one newly awakened, 
and forced a parody of a smile. 

“I have been asleep,” he stammered. “Forgive 
my inattention, gentlemen. You were saying . . . 
Ha ha! I see! A devilish good joke, sir. I 
dreamed I was a blacksmith and woke to believe I 
had fallen in the fire.” 

The hobbledehoys were sober enough to be a little 
nonplussed at this reception of their pleasantry. 
They stood staring sheepishly, all but one who wore 
a mask and a nightcap, as if he had just come from 
a mumming show. To judge by his voice he seemed 
older than the rest. 

“Tell us your dreams,” he said rudely. “From 


106 Chance-Medley 

your talk in your sleep they should have been full 
of treason. Who may you be, sir?” 

Alastair, at sight of a drawer’s face round the 
corner of the tap-room door, called for a bowl of 
punch. 

“Who am I?” he said quietly. “A traveller who 
has acquired a noble thirst, which he would fain 
share with other good fellows.” 

“Your name, my thirsty friend?” 

“Why, they call me Watson—Andrew Watson, 
and my business is to serve his Grace of Queens- 
berry, that most patriotic nobleman.” He spoke 
from a sudden fancy, rather than from any 
purpose; it was not likely that he could be contro¬ 
verted, for Mr Kyd was now posting into Wiltshire. 

His questioner looked puzzled, but it was obvious 
that the name of a duke, and Queensberry at that, 
had made an impression upon the company. The 
man spoke aside with a friend, and then left the 
kitchen. This was so clear a proof that there had 
been purpose in his baiting that Alastair could have 
found it in him to laugh at such clumsy conspirators. 
Somehow word had been sent of his coming, and 
there had been orders to entangle him; but the word 
had not been clear and his ill-wishers were still in 
doubt about his identity. It was his business in no 
way to enlighten them, but he would have given 
much to discover the informant. 

He had forgotten about the mentor at his elbow. 
Turning suddenly, he was confronted with the queer 
figure of the tutor of Chastlecote, who was finishing 
a modest supper of bread and cheese at the main 
table. The man’s clothes were shabbier than ever, 
but his face and figure were more wholesome than 


107 


Chance-M edley 

at Cornbury. His cheeks had a faint weathering, 
his neck was less flaccid, and he held himself more 
squarely. As Alastair turned, he also swung round, 
his left hand playing a tattoo upon his knee. His 
eye was charged with confidences. 

“We meet again,” he whispered. “Ever since we 
parted I have had a premonition of this encounter. 
I have much for your private ear.” 

But it was not told, for the leader of the hobble¬ 
dehoys, the fellow with the mask and nightcap, was 
again in the kitchen. It looked as if he had been 
given instructions by some one, for he shouted, as a 
man does when he is uncertain of himself and would 
keep up his courage. 

“Gentlefolk all, there are vipers among us to¬ 
night. This man who calls himself a duke’s agent, 
and the hedge schoolmaster at his elbow. They 
are naught but lousy Jacobites and ’tis our business 
as good Englishmen to strip and search them.” 

The others of his party cried out in assent, and 
there was a measure of support from the company 
at large. But before a man could stir the tutor 
spoke. 

“Bad law!” he said. “I and, for all I know, the 
other gentleman are inoffensive travellers moving 
on our lawful business. You cannot lay hand on us 
without a warrant from a justice. But, sirs, I am 
not one to quibble about legality. This fellow has 
insulted me grossly and shall here and now be 
brought to repentance. Put up your hands, you 
rogue.” 

The tutor had suddenly become a fearsome figure. 
He had risen from his chair, struggled out of his 
coat, and, blowing like a bull, was advancing across 


108 Chance-Medley 

the floor on his adversary, his great doubled fists 
held up close to his eyes. The other gave ground. 

“I do not fight with scum,” he growled. But as 
the tutor pressed on him, his hand went to his sword. 

He was not permitted to draw it. “You will 
fight with the natural weapon of Englishmen,” his 
assailant cried, and caught the sword strap and broke 
it, so that the weapon clattered into a corner and its 
wearer spun round like a top. The big man seemed 
to have the strength of a bull. “Put up your hands,” 
he cried again, “or take a coward’s drubbing.” 

The company was now in high excitement, and its 
sympathies were mainly against the challenged. 
Seeing this, he made a virtue of necessity, doubled 
his fists, ducked and got in a blow on the tutor’s 
brisket. The latter had no skill, but immense reach 
and strength and the uttermost resolution. He 
simply beat down the other’s guard, reckless of the 
blows he received, and presently dealt him such a 
clout that he measured his length on the floor, whence 
he rose sick and limping and departed on the arm 
of a friend. The victor, his cheeks mottled red and 
grey and his breath whistling like the wind in a 
chimney, returned amid acclamation to the fireside, 
where he accepted a glass of Alastair’s punch. 

For a moment the haggardness was wiped from 
the man’s face, and it shone with complacence. His 
eyes shot jovial but martial glances at the company. 

“We have proved our innocence,” he whispered 
to Alastair. “Had you used sword or pistol you 
would have been deemed spy and foreigner, but 
a bout of fisticuffs is the warrant of the true-born 
Englishman.’’ 


Chapter VI 

INTRODUCES THE RUNAWAY LADY 


yf LAST AIR stole a glance at his neighbour’s 
face and found it changed from their first 
meeting. It had lost its dumb misery and—for the 
moment—its grey pallor. Now it was flushed, ar¬ 
dent, curiously formidable, and, joined with the 
heavy broad shoulders, gave an impression of 
truculent strength. 

“I love to bandy such civilities,” said the com¬ 
batant. “I was taught to use my hands by my uncle 
Andrew, who used to keep the ring at Smithfields. 
We praise the arts of peace, but the keenest pleasure 
of mankind is in battles. You, sir, follow the pro¬ 
fession of arms. Every man thinks meanly of him¬ 
self for not having been a soldier.” 

He helped himself to the remainder of the bowl 
of punch, which he gulped down noisily. Alastair 
was in two minds about his new acquaintance. The 
man’s simplicity and courage and honest friendliness 
went to his heart, but he was at a loss in which rank 
of society to place him. Mr Johnson spoke with a 
queer provincial accent—to him friend was “freend” 
and a shire a “sheer”—and his manners were those 
of a yokel, save that they seemed to spring from a 
natural singularity rather than from a narrow ex¬ 
perience, for at moments he had a fine dignity, and 
his diction was metropolitan if his pronunciation 

was rustic. The more the young man looked at the 

109 


110 Introduces the Runaway Lady 

weak heavy-lidded eyes and the massive face, the 
more he fell under their spell. The appearance was 
like a Moorish palace—outside, a bleak wall which 
had yet a promise of a treasure-house within. 

“What of your errand?” he asked. “When we 
last parted you were in quest of a runaway lady.” 

“My quest has prospered, though I have foun¬ 
dered a good horse over it, and when I have paid 
for this night’s lodging, shall have only a quarter- 
guinea to take me back to Chastlecote. Why, sir, 
since you are kind enough to interest yourself in this 
affair, you shall be told of it. Miss Grevel is duly 
and lawfully wed and is now my lady Norreys. Sir 
John has gone north on what he considers to be his 
duty. He is, as you are aware, a partisan of the 
young Prince. My lady stays behind; indeed she is 
lodged not a mile from this inn in the house of her 
mother’s brother, Mr Thicknesse.” 

“Then you are easier in mind about the business?” 

“I am easier in mind. The marriage was per¬ 
formed as decently as was possible for a thing so 
hastily contrived. He has behaved to the lady in all 
respects with courtesy and consideration, and he has 
shown the strength of his principles by departing at 
once to the camp of his Prince. I am disposed to 
think better of his character than I had been en¬ 
couraged to by rumour. And, sir, there is one thing 
that admits of no shadow of doubt. The lady is 
most deeply in love.” 

“You have seen her?” 

“This very day. She carries her head as if she 
wore a crown on it, and her eyes are as happy as a 
child’s. I did not venture to present myself, for if 
she guessed that I had followed her she would have 


Introduces the Runaway Lady 111 

laid a whip over my back.” He stopped to laugh, 
with affection in his eyes. “She has done it before, 
sir, for ’tis a high-spirited lady. So I bribed a 
keeper with sixpence to allow me to watch from a 
covert, as she took her midday walk. She moved 
like Flora, and she sang as she moved. That is hap¬ 
piness, said I to myself, and whatever the faults of 
the man who is its cause, ’twould be sacrilege to mar 
it. So I slipped off, thanking my Maker that out of 
seeming ill the dear child had won this blessedness.” 

Mr Johnson ceased to drum on the table or waggle 
his foot, and fell into an abstraction, his body at 
peace, his eyes fixed on the fire in a pleasant dream. 
The company in the kitchen had thinned to half a 
dozen, and out-of-doors the din of the fair seemed to 
be dying down. Alastair was growing drowsy, and 
he too fell to staring at the flames and seeing pictures 
in their depths. Suddenly a hand was laid on his 
elbow and, turning with a start, he found a lean 
little man on the form behind him. 

“Be ’ee the Dook’s man?” a cracked voice 
whispered. 

Alastair puzzled, till he remembered that an hour 
back he had claimed to be Queensberry’s agent. So 
he nodded. 

The little man thrust a packet into his hands. 

“This be for ’ee,” he said, and was departing, 
when Alastair plucked his arm. 

“From whom?” he asked. 

“I worn’t to say, but ’ee knows.” Then he thrust 
forward a toothless mouth to the other’s ear. 
“From Brother Gilly,” he whispered. 

“And to whom were you sent?” 

“To ’ee. To the Dook’s man at the Dog and Gun. 


112 Introduces the Runaway Lady 

I wor to ask at the landlord,,but ’e ain’t forthcoming, 
and one I knows and trusts points me to ’ee.” 

Alastair realised that he was mistaken for Mr 
Nicholas Kyd, now posting south; and, since the 
two were on the same business, he felt justified in 
acting as Mr Kyd’s deputy. He pocketed the pack¬ 
age and gave the messenger a shilling. At that 
moment Mr Johnson came out of his reverie. His 
brow was clouded. 

“At my lord Cornbury’s house there was a tall 
man with a florid face. He treated me with little 
politeness and laughed out of season. He had a 
servant, too, a rough Scot who attended to my 
horse. I have seen that servant in these parts.” 

Alastair woke to a lively interest. Then he re¬ 
membered that Mr Kyd had told him of a glimpse 
he had had of the tutor of Chastlecote. Johnson 
had seen the man Edom before he had started south. 

His thoughts turned to the packet. There could 
be no chance of overtaking Mr Kyd, whose corre¬ 
spondent was so culpably in arrears. The thing 
might be the common business of the Queensberry 
estates, in which case it would be forwarded when 
he found an occasion. But on the other hand it 
might be business of Menelaus, business of urgent 
import to which Alastair could attend. . . . He 
debated the matter with himself for a little, and then 
broke the seal. 

The packet had several inclosures. One was in a 
cypher to which he had not the key. Another was 
a long list of names, much contracted, with figures 
in three columns set against each. The third riveted 
his eyes, so that he had no ear for the noises of the 
inn or the occasional remarks of his companion. 


Introduces the Runaway Lady 113 

It was a statement, signed by the word Tekel and 
indorsed with the name of Mene —a statement of 
forces guaranteed from Wales and the Welsh 
Marches. There could be no doubt about its pur¬ 
port. There was Sir Watkin’s levy and the day and 
the hour it would be ready to march; that w*as a test 
case which proved the document authentic, for 
Alastair himself had discussed provisionally these 
very details a week ago at Wynnstay. There were 
other levies in money and men against the names of 
Cotton, Herbert, Savage, Wynne, Lloyd, Powell. 
Some of the figures were queried, some explicit and 
certified. There was a note about Beaufort, promis¬ 
ing an exact account within two days, which would 
be sent to Oxford. Apparently the correspondent 
called Gilly, whoever he might be, knew of Kyd’s 
journey southward, but assumed that he had not yet 
started. At the end were three lines of gibberish—a 
cypher obviously. 

As his mind grasped the gist of the thing, a flush 
crept over his face and he felt the beat of his heart 
quicken. Here was news, tremendous news. The 
West was rising, careless of a preliminary English 
victory, and waiting only the arrival of the Prince at 
some convenient rendezvous. There were ten thou¬ 
sand men and half a million of money in these lists, 
and they were not all. Beaufort was still to come, 
and Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and the Welsh 
south-west. The young man’s eyes kindled, and then 
grew a little dim. He saw the triumph of his Prince, 
and the fulfilment of his dreams, for the war would 
no longer be a foreign invasion but a rising of 
Englishmen. He remembered Midwinter’s words, 
“You can win only by enlisting Old England.” It 


114 Introduces the Runaway Lady 

looked as if it had been done. . . . He saw now 
why Kyd must linger in the south. He was the 
conduit pipe of a vital intelligence which must go to 
the Prince by the swiftest means, for on it all his 
strategy depended. He himself would carry this 
budget, and for the others Kyd had doubtless made 
his own plans. Even now Lancashire would be up, 
and Cheshire stirring. . . . 

The kitchen door was flung open with a violence 
which startled three topers left by the table. A 
lantern wavered in the doorway, and in front of it 
a square-set man in fustian stumped into the place. 
He carried a constable’s stave in one hand and in 
the other a paper. Behind him a crowd followed, 
among which might be recognised the mummers of 
the evening, notably the one whose bandaged face 
bore witness to the strength of Mr Samuel Johnson’s 
fist. 

The constable marched up to the hearth. 

“By these ’ere presents I lays ’old on the bodies 
of two suspected pussons, to wit one Muck Lane, a 
Scotchman, and one Johnson, a schoolmaster, they 
being pussons whose doings and goings and comings 
are contrairy to the well-bein’ of this ’ere realm and 
a danger to the peace of our Lord the King.” 

The mention of himself by name showed Alastair 
that this was no affair of village spy-hunters, but a 
major peril. In his hand he still held the packet 
addressed to Kyd. Were he searched it might be 
damning evidence; moreover he had already the best 
part of the intelligence therein contained in his head. 
Mr Johnson, who was chilly, had just flung on more 
logs and the fire blazed high. Into the red heart of 
it went the paper and, since the tutor’s bulky figure 


Introduces the Runaway Lady 115 

was between him and the door, the act was not 
noticed by the constable and his followers. 

“What whim of rascality is this?” asked Mr 
Johnson, reaching for a stout oak stick which he had 
propped in a corner. 

“A very troublesome whim for you,” said a voice. 
“The constable holds a warrant issued by Squire 
Thicknesse for the arrest of two Jacobite emissaries 
traced into this village.” 

“Ay,” said the constable, “ ’ee’d better come 
quiet, for Squire ’ave sent a brave lot o’ keepers and 
stable lads to manhandle ’ee if ’ee don’t. My orders 
is to carry ’ee to the Manor and lock ’ee up there till 
such time as ’ee can be sent to Brumming’am.” 

“Arrant nonsense,” cried Johnson. “I’m a better 
subject of His Majesty than any rascal among you, 
and so, I doubt not, is my friend. Yet so great is 
our veneration for the laws of England, that we will 
obey this preposterous summons. Take me to your 
Squire, but be warned, every jack of you, that if a 
man lays his hand on me I will fell him to the earth.” 

“And I say likewise,” said Alastair, laying a sig¬ 
nificant hand on his sword. 

The constable, who had no great stomach for his 
duty, was relieved by his prisoners’ complaisance, 
and after some discussion with his friend announced 
that no gyves should be used if they consented to 
walk with the Squire’s men on both sides of them. 
Alastair insisted on having his baggage brought with 
him, which was duly delivered to one of the Manor’s 
grooms by a silent landlady; Mr Johnson carried his 
slender outfit in his pockets. The landlord did not 
show himself. But at the inn door, before the 
Manor men closed up, a figure pressed forward 


116 Introduces the Runaway Lady 

from the knot of drunken onlookers, and Alastair 
found his sleeve plucked and the face of Brother 
Gilly’s messenger beside him. 

“I’ve been mistook, maister. ’Ee bain’t the 
Dook’s man, not the one I reckoned. Gimme back 
the letter.” 

“It’s ashes now. Tell that to him that sent you. 
Say the letter’s gone, but the news travels forward 
in a man’s head.” 

The messenger blinked uncomprehendingly and 
then made as if to repeat his request, but a sudden 
rush of merrymakers, hungry for a fresh spectacle, 
swept him down the street. Presently the escort 
was clear of the village and tramping through a 
black aisle of trees. Some one lit a lantern, which 
showed the mattress of chestnut leaves underfoot 
and the bare branches above. The keepers and 
stable-boys whistled, and Mr Johnson chanted aloud 
what sounded like Latin hexameters. For him 
there was no discomfort in the adventure save that 
on a raw night it removed him from a warm fireside. 

But for Alastair the outlook was grave. Here 
was he arrested by a booby constable on the war¬ 
rant of some Justice Shallow, but arrested under his 
own name. He had passed secretly from Scotland 
to Cornbury, and but for the party at the latter 
place and one strange fellow on Otmoor, no one had 
known that name. Could the news have leaked out 
from the Cornbury servants? But, even then, he 
was not among the familiar figures of Jacobitism, 
and he had but just come from France. Only Lord 
Cornbury knew his true character, and Lord Corn¬ 
bury did not talk. Yet some one with full knowl¬ 
edge of his past and present had tracked him to this 


Introduces the Runaway Lady 117 

village, a place far from any main highway to the 
North. 

What he feared especially was delay. Unless 
Cornbury bore witness against him, or the man from 
Otmoor, the law had no evidence worth a farthing. 
Hearsay and suspicion could not hang him. He 
would play the part of the honest traveller now 
returning from an Oxfordshire visit, and if needs 
be he would refer to Queensberry’s business. But 
hearsay and suspicion could delay. He was sud¬ 
denly maddened by the thought that some bumbling 
Justice might detain him in these rotting midlands 
when the Prince was crossing Ribble. And he had 
to get north with the news of the Welsh recruiting! 
At the thought he bit his lips in a sharp vexation. 

They passed through gates into a park where the 
trees fell back from the road, and presently were 
in a flagged courtyard with a crack of light showing 
from a door ajar. It opened and a portly butler 
filled it. 

“You will await his honour in the Justice Room,” 
he announced, and the prisoners swung to the right 
under an archway into another quadrangle. 

The Justice Room proved to be a bare apartment, 
smelling strongly of apples, with a raised platform 
at one end and on the floor a number of wooden 
forms arranged like the pens at a sheep fair. On 
the platform stood a large handsome arm-chair cov¬ 
ered in Spanish leather, and before it a small table. 
The butler entered by a door giving on the plat¬ 
form, and on the table placed a ieather-bound book 
and on the chair a red velvet cushion. 

“Exit the clerk, enter the preacher,” said Johnson. 

The servant, bowing profoundly, ushered in a 


118 Introduces the Runaway Lady 

tall gentleman in a suit of dark-blue velvet, with a 
fine lace cravat falling over a waistcoat of satin and 
silver. The gentleman might have been fifty years 
of age by the lines round his mouth, but his cherubic 
countenance was infantine in contour, and coloured, 
by hunting or the bottle, to an even pink. He had 
clearly been dining well, for he plumped down 
heavily in the chair and his eye was as blue and 
vacant as a frosty sky. When he spoke it was with 
the careful enunciation of one who is not in a con¬ 
dition to take liberties with the English tongue. 

“Makin’ so bold, your honour,” said the con¬ 
stable, “them ’ere’s the prisoners as is named in 
your honour’s worshipful warrant.” 

His honour nodded. “What the devil do you 
want me to do, Perks?” he asked. 

The mummer with the broken head, who had 
become mysteriously one of the party, answered. 

“Lock ’em up for to-night, Squire Thicknesse, 
and to-morrow send ’em to Birmingham with a 
mounted escort. It’s political business, and no 
matter of poaching or petty thieving.” 

“I require that the charge be read,” said Johnson. 

Squire Thicknesse took up a paper, looked at it 
with aversion, and gazed round him helplessly. 
“Where the devil is my clerk?” he lamented. 
“Gone feasting to Flambury, I’ll warrant. I can¬ 
not read this damned crabbed hand.” 

“Let me be your clerk, Nunkie dear.” 

A girl had slipped through the door, and now 
stood by the chair looking over the Squire’s shoul¬ 
der. She was clearly very young, for her lips had 
the pouting fullness and her figure the straight lines 
of a child’s, and her plain white gown and narrow 


Introduces the Runaway Lady 119 

petticoats had a nursery simplicity. The light was 
bad, and Alastair could not note the details, seeing 
only a glory of russet hair and below it a dimness 
of pearl and rose. On that much he was clear, and 
on the bird-like charm of her voice. 

The effect of the vision on Johnson was to make 
him drive an elbow into Alastair’s ribs and to mur¬ 
mur in what was meant for a whisper: “That is my 
lady. That is the dear child.” 

The sharp young eyes had penetrated the gloom 
below the platform. 

“Why, Nunkie, there is a face I know. Heavens 1 
It is our tutor from Chastlecote. Old Puffin we 
called him, for he puffs like my spaniel. A faithful 
soul, Nunkie, but at times oppressive. What can 
he want so far from home?” 

The mummer, who seemed to have assumed the 
duties of prosecution, answered: “The man Johnson 
is accused of being act and part with the other in con¬ 
spiracy against His Majesty’s throne.” 

The girl’s laughter trilled through the place. 
“Oh, what delectable folly! Mr Samuel a con¬ 
spirator! He is too large and noisy, Nunkie, and 
far, far too much of a sobersides. But give me the 
paper and I will be your clerk.” 

With disquiet and amazement Alastair listened 
to the record. His full name was set down and his 
rank in King Louis’ service. His journey into Ox¬ 
fordshire was retailed, and its purpose, but the 
name of Cornbury was omitted. Then followed his 
expedition into Wales, with special mention of 
Wynnstay, and last his urgent reasons for returning 
north. Whoever had compiled the indictment was 
most intimately informed of all his doings. His 


120 Introduces the Runaway Lady 

head swam, for the thing seemed starkly incredible, 
and the sense of having lived unwittingly close to 
a deadly foe affected him with something not far 
from fear. 

“What do you say to that?” Squire Thicknesse 
asked. 

“That it is some foolish blunder. You have laid 
hold on the wrong man, sir, and I admit no part 
of it except the name, which is mine, and, with 
deference, as ancient and unsmirched as your hon¬ 
our’s. No single fact can be adduced to substan¬ 
tiate these charges.” 

“They will be abundantly proven.” The mum¬ 
mer’s voice croaked ominous as a raven’s. 

The charge against Johnson proved to be much 
flimsier, and was derided by the girl. “I insist that 
you straightly discharge my Mr Samuel,” she cried. 
“I will go bail for his good behaviour, and to¬ 
morrow a servant shall take him back to Chastle- 
cote. He is too innocent to be left alone. The 
other-” 

“He says he is an agent of the Duke of Queens- 
berry,” said the relentless mummer. “I can prove 
him to be a liar.” 

The girl was apparently not listening. Her eyes 
had caught Alastair’s and some intelligence seemed 
to pass from them to his. She spoke a word in the 
Squire’s ear and then looked beyond the prisoners 
to the mummer. 

“My uncle, who is known for his loyalty to the 
present Majesty, will take charge of the younger 
prisoner and send him safe to-morrow to Birming¬ 
ham. The other he will discharge. . . . That is 
your will, Nunkie?” 



Introduces the Runaway Lady 121 

The Squire nodded. He was feeling very sleepy 
and at the same time very thirsty, and his mind 
hovered between bed and a fresh bottle. 

“You may go home now, friends,” she said, “and 
sweet dreams to you. You, constable, bring the 
two men to the Great Hall.” Then she slipped 
an arm inside her uncle’s. “My Mr Sam shall sup 
in the buttery and have a bed from Giles. To¬ 
morrow we will find him a horse. You are a wise 
judge, Nunkie, and do not waste your wisdom on 
innocents. The other man looks dangerous and 
must be well guarded. Put him in the Tower gar¬ 
ret, and give Giles the key. But first let the poor 
creature have bite and sup, if he wants it. He 
has the air of a gentleman.” 

As Alastair walked before the staff of the con¬ 
stable, who wielded it like an ox-goad, his mind was 
furiously busy at guessing the source of the revela¬ 
tions in the warrant. Not till they stood in the 
glow of the hall lights did the notion of Kyd’s 
servant come to him by the process of exhausting 
other possibilities. But the man had set off with 
Kyd early that morning for the South from a place 
forty miles distant. It was a naked absurdity, but 
nevertheless he asked Johnson the question, “Where 
did you see the serving man who took your horse 
at Cornbury?” 

The answer staggered him. “This very day at 
the gate of this place about an hour after noon.” 

As his perturbed gaze roamed round the hall he 
caught again the eye of the girl, looking back with 
her foot on the staircase. This time there could 
be no mistake. Her face was bright with confiden¬ 
tial friendliness. 


Chapter VII 


HOW A MAN MAY HUNT WITH THE HOUNDS AND 
YET RUN WITH THE HARE 

r HE butler Giles conducted him through long 
corridors to the door which separated the 
manor proper from its ancient Edwardian tower, 
and then up stone stairways to a room under the 
roof which had once been the sleeping apartment 
of the lord of the castle. The walls were two 
yards thick, the windows mere slits for arrows, the 
oaken floor as wavy as a ploughland. He had re¬ 
fused supper and asked only peace to collect his 
wits. Giles set a candle down on an oak table, and 
nodded to a cavernous canopied bed. “There’s 
blankets enow to keep you warm, since the night be 
mild for the time o’ year. Good sleep to ye and 
easy dreams.” The key turned in the lock, and the 
shuffle of heelless shoes died on the stair. 

Alastair flung himself on the bed, and lay staring 
at the roof of the canopy, fitfully illumined by the 
dancing candle. A light wind must have crept into 
the room from some cranny of the windows, for the 
flame flickered and queer shadows chased each other 
over the dark walls. He was in a torment of dis¬ 
quietude since hearing the warrant—not for his own 
safety, for he did not despair of giving these chaw- 
bacons the slip, but for the prospects of the Cause. 
There was black treason somewhere in its inner¬ 
most councils. The man who had betrayed every 

122 


A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 123 

danger-point in his own career could do the same 
thing for others. The rogue—Kyd’s servant or 
whoever he might be—was in the way of knowing 
the heart of every secret. Kyd, charged with a 
most vital service on which the future of England 
hung, had this Judas always at his elbow to frus¬ 
trate or falsify any message to the North, to play 
the devil with the Prince’s recruiting, and at the end 
to sell his master’s head for gold. The thought 
made the young man dig his nails into his palms. 
God’s pity that in an affair so gossamer-fine there 
should be this rude treachery to rend the web. . . . 
But if the miscreant was Kyd’s servant, how came 
he in this neighbourhood? Had he been dismissed 
from Kyd’s service? Or was Kyd himself at hand 
and the journey into Wiltshire relinquished? His 
mind was in utter confusion. 

Nevertheless the discovery had quickened his 
spirit, which of late he thought had been growing 
languid. He was a campaigner, and made his plans 
quick. His immediate duty was to escape, his next 
to reach the Prince and concert measures to meet 
the case of West England. Fortunate for him that 
the letter of Brother Gilly had fallen into his hand, 
for now he knew the magnitude of the business. 
But first he must sleep, for all evening he had been 
nodding. He had the soldier’s trick of snatching 
odd hours of slumber, so, drawing a blanket round 
him and resolutely shutting off all thoughts, he was 
soon unconscious. 

He slept lightly, and woke to see the candle, which 
he had left burning, guttering over the edge of the 
iron candlestick. A swift shadow ran across the 
wall before him, and a sudden waft of air caused 


124 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

the candle-end to flare like a torch. He glanced at 
the door, and it seemed to move. Then the place 
was quiet again, but it was brighter, for a new light 
had come into it. He scrambled from the bed to 
see the glow of a shaded lantern, and a slim cloaked 
figure slipping the key from the door. 

The lantern was set beside the candle on the 
table. The figure wore a furred bed-gown and a 
nightcap of lace and pink satin, and its brown eyes 
in the shadow were bright as a squirrel’s and very 
merry. 

“La, la, such a commotion ere I could come to 
you, sir,” she said. “Giles must carry Nunkie to 
bed and hoist Squire Bretherton and Sir Ambrose 
on their horses, and get a message from me to Black 
Ben, and pass a word to Stable Bill about Moon¬ 
beam. You have slept, wise man that you are? But 
it is time to be about your business of escaping, for 
in three hours it will be daylight.” 

She was like a pixie in the half darkness, a tall 
pixie, that had a delicious small stammer in its 
speech. Alastair was on his feet now, bowing awk¬ 
wardly. 

“Tell me,” she whispered. “The warrant is 
true? You are Alastair Maclean, a captain in 
Lee’s Regiment of France, and a messenger from 
the Prince in Scotland. Oh, have no fear of me, 
for I am soul and body for the Cause.” 

“The warrant spoke truly,” he said. 

“And you will join the Prince at the first possible 
moment? How go things in the North? Have 
you any news, sir?” 

“The Prince crossed the Border yesterday. He 
marches to Lancashire.” 


And Yet Run with the Hare 125 

She twined her fingers in excitement. “You dare 
not delay an hour. And you shall not. I have 
made everything ready. Sir, you will find I have 
made everything ready. See, you shall follow me 
downstairs and Giles will be waiting. The lock of 
your door fits badly, for the wood around is worm- 
eaten. To-morrow it will be lying on the floor, to 
show my uncle how you escaped. Giles will take 
you by a private way to the Yew Avenue, and there 
Bill from the stables will await you with Moon¬ 
beam saddled and ready—my uncle’s favourite, no 
less. You will ride down the avenue very carefully, 
keeping on the grass and making no sound, till you 
reach the white gate which leads to Wakehurst 
Common. There Ben will meet you and guide you 
out of this country so that by the evening you may 
be in Cheshire.” 

“Ben the Gypsy?” he asked. 

“The same. Do you know him? He is on our 
side and does many an errand for me.” 

“But, madam, what of yourself? What will 
your uncle say when he finds his horse gone?” 

“Stolen by the gypsies—I have the story pat. 
There will be a pretty hue and cry, but Ben will 
know of its coming and take precautions. I am 
grieved to tell fibs, but needs must in the day of 
war.” 

“But I leave you alone to face the consequences.” 

“Oh, do not concern yourself for me. My dear 
uncle is indulgent and, though a Whig, is no bigot. 
He will not grieve for your absence at breakfast 
to-morrow. But I fear the loss of Moonbeam will 
put him terribly out, and I should be obliged if 
you could find some way of restoring his horse when 


126 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

his purpose is served. As for myself, I propose 
leaving this hospitable house no later than to-mor¬ 
row and journeying north into Derbyshire. I will 
take Mr Johnson with me as company and pro¬ 
tector, and I have also my servants from Weston.” 

She spoke with the air of a commander-in-chief, 
an air so mature and mistressly that it betrayed her 
utter youth. 

“I am most deeply beholden to you, my lady,” 
said Alastair. “You know something of me, and 
I will beg in return some news of my benefactress. 
You are my lady Norreys?” 

The matronly airs fled and she was a shy child 
again. 

“I am m-my lady,” she stammered, “this week 
back. How did you know, sir? The faithful Puf¬ 
fin? My dear Sir John has gone north to join his 
Prince, by whose side you will doubtless meet him. 
Tell him I too have done my humble mite of service 
to the Cause, and that I am well, and happy in all 
things but his absence. . . . See, I have written him 
a little letter which will serve equally to present you 
to him and to assure him of my love. He is one of 
you—one of the trusted inner circle, I mean.” She 
lowered her voice. “He bears the name of 
Achilles.” 

The hazel eyes had ceased to sparkle and become 
modest and dim. 

“Tell me one thing, my lady, before I go. My 
mission to the South was profoundly secret, and not 
four men in the Prince’s army knew of it. Yet I 
find myself and my doings set forth in a justice’s 
warrant as if I had cried them in the streets. There 
is a traitor abroad and if he goes undetected he 


And Yet Run with the Hare 127 

spells ruin to our Cause. Can you help me to 
unearth him?” 

She wrinkled her brows and narrowed her startled 
eyes. 

“I cannot guess. Save you and Sir John I have 
seen no professor of our faith. Stay, who was the 
mummer last night in the justice-room?” 

“Some common jackal of Hanover. No, the 
danger is not there. But, madam, you have a quick 
brain and a bold heart. If you can lay your finger 
on this fount of treason, you will do a noble work 
for our Prince. Have you the means to send a 
message to the North?” 

She nodded. “Assuredly—by way of Sir John. 
. . . But you just start forthwith, sir. I will take 
your mails into Derbyshire in my charge, for you 
must ride fast and light. Now, follow me, and 
tread softly when I lift my hand.” 

Down the long stone stairs the lantern fluttered, 
and at a corner the man who followed caught a 
glimpse of bare rosy ankles above the furred slip¬ 
pers. In the manor galleries, where oaken flooring 
creaked, a hand was now and then raised to advise 
caution. Once there came the slamming of a door, 
and the lantern-bearer froze into stillness behind an 
armoire, while Alastair, crouched beside her, felt 
the beating of her heart. But without mishap they 
reached the Great Hall, where the last red embers 
crackled fitfully and a cricket ticked on the hearth¬ 
stone. Through a massive door they entered 
another corridor and the girl whistled long and 
soft. The answer was a crack of light from a side 
door, and Giles appeared, cloaked like a conspirator 
and carrying a pewter candlestick. Gone was the 


128 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

decorum of the butler who had set the stage in the 
Justice-room, and it was a nervous furtive old 
serving-man who received the girl’s instructions. 

“Oh, my lady, I’m doing this for your mother’s 
sake, her as I used to make posies for when I was no 
more’n buttery lad. But my knees do knock to¬ 
gether cruel, for what Squire would say if he knew 
makes my blood freeze to think on.” 

“Now, don’t be a fool, Giles. I can manage your 
master, and you have nothing to do but lead this 
gentleman to the Yew Avenue, and then back to 
your bed with a clear conscience.” 

She laid a hand on the young man’s arm—the ges¬ 
ture with which a boy encourages a friend. 

“Adieu, sir, and I pray God that He lead you 
swift and straight to your journey’s end. I will be 
in Derbyshire—at Brightwell under the Peak, wait¬ 
ing to bid you welcome when you come south to the 
liberation of England.” He took her hand, kissed 
it, and, with a memory of wistful eyes and little 
curls that strayed from her cap’s lace and satin, he 
followed the butler through the kitchen postern into 
the gloom of the night. 

A short and stealthy journey among shrubberies 
brought them to a deeper blackness which proved to 
be a grove of yews. Something scraped and rustled 
close ahead, and the hoarse whisper of Giles re¬ 
ceived a hoarse answer. The night was not so dark 
as to hide objects outside the shade of the trees* 
and on a patch of grass Alastair made out a horse 
with a man beside it. Bill the stableman put the 
bridle into his hand, after making certain by a word 
with Giles that he was the person awaited. Alastair 
found a guinea for each, and before their muttered 


And Yet Run with the Hare 129 

thanks were done was in the saddle, moving, as he 
had been instructed, into the blackness of the great 
avenue. 

The light mouth, the easy paces, the smooth rip¬ 
ple of muscle under his knees told him that he was 
mounted on no common horse, but his head was still 
too full of his late experience to be very observant 
about the present. The nut-brown girl, the melodi¬ 
ous voice with a stammer like a break in a nightin¬ 
gale’s song, seemed too delicious and strange for 
reality. And yet she was flesh and blood; he had 
felt her body warm against his when they sheltered 
behind the armoire: it was her doing that he was 
now at liberty and posting northward. Now he 
understood Mr Johnson’s devotion. To serve such 
a lady he would himself scale the blue air and plough 
the high hills, as the bards sang. 

The bemusement took him down the avenue till 
the trees thinned out and on the right came the 
ghostly glimmer of a white gate. He turned and 
found it open, and by it another horseman. 

“The gentleman from Miss Claudy—beg y’r 
pardon—from m’lady?” a voice asked. 

“The same,” Alastair replied. The speech was 
that of the gypsy he had met the day before. 

The man shut the gate with his whip. “Then 
follow me close and not a cheep o’ talk. We’ve 
some cunning and fast journeying to do before the 
day breaks.” 

They swept at a canter down a long lane, deeply 
rutted, and patched here and there with clumps of 
blackberries. Then they were on a heath, where 
the sky was lighter and the road had to be carefully 
picked round sandpits and quarry-holes. Alastair 


130 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

had no guess at direction, for the sky showed never 
a star, and though the dark was not impenetrable it 
was hopeless to look for landmarks. A strange 
madcap progress they made over every kind of 
country, now on road, now in woodland, now breast¬ 
ing slopes of heath with the bracken rubbing on the 
stirrups. Oftenest they were in forest land, where 
sometimes there was no path and Alastair found it 
best to give his horse its head and suffer it to do the 
steering. He had forgotten that England could be 
so wild, for these immense old boles and the miles 
of thicket and mere belonged surely to a primeval 
world. Again the course would be over fallow and 
new plough, and again in lanes and parish roads and 
now and then on the turnpike. The pace was easy— 
a light canter, but there were no halts, and always 
ahead over hedge and through gap went the slim 
figure of the gypsy. 

The air was chilly but not cold, and soon the grey 
cloth of darkness began to thin till it was a fine veil 
dimming but not hiding objects, and the light wind 
blew which even on the stillest night heralds the 
dawn. The earth began to awake, lights kindled in 
farms and cottages, lanterns flickered around stead¬ 
ings. Movement through this world just struggling 
out of sleep was a joy and an exhilaration. It re¬ 
minded Alastair of a winter journey from Paris to 
Beauvais—part of a Prince’s wager—when with re¬ 
lays of horses he had ridden down the night, through 
woods and hamlets dumb with snow, intoxicated with 
his youth, and seeing mystery in every light that 
glimmered out of the dark. Now he was in the 
same mood. His spirits rose at the signs of awak¬ 
ing humanity. That lantern by a brook was a shep- 


131 


And Yet Run with the Hare 

herd pulling hay for the tups now huddled in the 
sheepcote. The light at that window was the good- 
wife grilling bacon for the farmer’s breakfast, or 
Blowselinda of the Inn sweeping the parlour after 
the night’s drinking. And through that homely 
ritual of morn he was riding north to the Wars 
which should upturn thrones and make nobles of 
plain captains. Youth! Romance! And some¬ 
where in the background of his brain a voice sounded 
like a trill of music. “Adieu, sir. I pray God . . . 
I go to B-Brightwell under the P-Peak . . .” 

The light had grown and he had his first view of 
Black Ben, and Ben of him. They jostled at a gate 
and stared at each other. 

“We meet again,” he said. 

“Happy meeting, my dear good gentleman. But 
you were on a different errand yesterday when my 
duty drove me the way of hot ashes. No offence 
took along of a poor man’s honesty, kind sir?” 

“None,” said Alastair. He saw now the reason 
for the gypsy’s presence with the recruits. He was 
in Jacobite pay, hired to scatter Oglethorpe’s levies 
and so reduce Wade’s command. But none the less 
he disliked the man—his soft sneering voice, and the 
shifty eyes which he remembered from yesterday. 

It was now almost broad day, about eight in the 
morning, and Alastair reckoned that they must have 
travelled twenty miles and be close on the Cheshire 
border. The country was featureless—much wood¬ 
land interspersed with broad pastures, and far to the 
east a lift of ground towards a range of hills. The 
weather was soft and clear, a fine scenting morning 
for the hunt, and far borne on the morning air came 
the sound of a horn. 


132 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

The gypsy seemed to be at fault. He stopped and 
considered for a matter of five minutes with his ear 
cocked. Then he plunged into a copse and emerged 
in a rushy bottom between high woods. Here the 
sound of the horn was heard again, apparently from 
the slopes at the end of the bottom. 

“The turnpike runs yonder at the back of the oak 
clump,” he said. “Best get to it by the brook there 
and the turf bridge. I must leave you, pretty gen¬ 
tleman. You take the left turn and hold on, and this 
night you will sleep in Warrington.” 

They were jogging towards the brook when 
Alastair took a fancy to look back, and saw between 
the two woods a tiny landscape neatly framed in the 
trees. There was a church tower in it, and an oddly 
shaped clump of ashes. Surely it was familiar. 

Across the brook the hunting horn sounded again, 
this time from beyond a spinney at the top of the 
slope. 

“There lies your road, pretty sir,” and the gypsy 
pointed to the left of the spinney and wheeled his 
horse to depart. 

But Alastair was looking back again. The higher 
ground of the slope gave him a wider prospect, and 
he saw across one of the enclosing woods the tall 
chimneys of a great house. That did not detain his 
eye, which was caught by something beyond. There 
on a low ridge was sprawled a big village with 
square-towered church and a blur of smoke above 
the line of houses. England must be a monotonous 
land, for this village of Cheshire was the very image 
of Flambury, and the adjacent mansion might have 
been Squire Thicknesse’s manor. 

At the same moment the music of hounds crashed 


133 


And Yet Run with the Hare 

from the spinney ahead, and a horn was violently 
blown. Round the edge of the spinney came the 
hunt, and the pack was spilled out of its shade like 
curds from a broken dish. The sight, novel in his 
experience, held him motionless. He saw the hunts¬ 
man struggling with outrunners, and the field, urged 
on by the slope, crowding on the line. In the rear 
he saw a figure which was uncommonly like the mag¬ 
istrate who had presided last night in the Justice- 
room. As he observed these things he realised that 
his twenty miles of the morning had been a circuit, 
and that he was back now at the starting-point, 
mounted on a stolen horse, and within a hundred 
yards of the horse’s owner. The gypsy had set 
spurs to his beast and was disappearing round the 
other end of the spinney, and even in the hubbub of 
the hunt he thought he detected the man’s mocking 
laugh. 

To hesitate was to be lost, and there was but the 
one course open. A tawny streak had slid before 
the hounds towards the brook. That must be the 
fox, and if he were not to become the quarry in its 
stead he must join in the chase. The huntsman was 
soon twenty yards from him, immediately behind 
the hounds, and fifty yards at his back came the van 
of the field. In that van he could see Squire Thick- 
nesse mounted on a powerful grey, and he seemed to 
have eyes only for the hounds. Alastair cut in well 
behind him, in the hope that he would be taken for a 
straggler at covert-side, and in three seconds was 
sweeping forward in the second flight. 

The morning’s ride had been for Moonbeam no 
more than a journey to the meet, and the beautiful 
animal now laid back his ears and settled down to 


134 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

his share in that game which he understood as well 
as any two-legged mortal. But in the very perfec¬ 
tion of the horse lay the rider’s peril. Moonbeam 
was accustomed to top the hunt, for Squire Thick- 
nesse was famed over three shires as a good goer. 
He would not be content to travel a field or tw r o 
behind hounds; he must keep them company. Alas- 
tair found that no checking could restrain his mount. 
The animal was lightly bitted and he had not the 
skill or the strength to hold him back. True, he 
could have swerved and fetched a wide circuit, but in 
that first rush these tactics did not suggest them¬ 
selves, and he set himself to a frantic effort at rein¬ 
ing in, in which he was worsted. Moonbeam crossed 
the brook like a swallow; in a boggy place he took 
off badly, topped an ox-bar in the hedge, and all but 
fell on his nose in the next meadow. But after that 
he made no mistake, and in five minutes Alastair 
found himself looking from ten yards’ distance at 
the broad back of the huntsman, with no rider near 
him except Squire Thicknesse on the grey. 

The going was good over old pasture, and the 
young man had leisure to recover his breath and con¬ 
sider his position. He had hunted buck in France— 
stately promenades in the forests of Fontainebleau 
and Chantilly, varied by mad gallops along grassy 
rides where the only risk was the cannoning with 
other cavaliers. But this chase of the fox was a very 
different matter, the glory of it went to his head 
like strong wine, and he would not have cried off if 
he could. So far he was undiscovered. Were the 
fumes of last night’s revel still in the Squire’s head, 
or had he never meant to ride Moonbeam that day 
and his groom kept the loss from him? Crossing a 


135 


And Yet Run with the Hare 

thickset hedge neck by neck, Alastair stole a glance 
at him, and decided that the former explanation was 
the true one. His late host was still in the process 
of growing sober. ... It could not last for ever. 
Sooner or later must come a check or a kill, when he 
would have a chance to look at his neighbour and 
his neighbour’s horse. . . . Then he must ride for 
it, become himself the fox, and trust to Moonbeam. 
Pray God that the run took them to the north and 
ended many miles from Flambury. 

For the better part of an hour hounds ran without 
a check—away from the enclosed fields and the 
woodlands to a country of furzy downs and bracken- 
filled hollows, and then once more into a land of 
tangled thickets. It took about twenty minutes to 
clear Squire Thicknesse’s brain. Alastair heard a 
sudden roar behind him and looked over his shoul¬ 
der to see a furious blue eye fixed on him, and to 
hear a bellow of—“Damme, it’s my horse. It’s my 
little Moonbeam!” He saw a whip raised, and felt 
it swish a foot from his leg. There was nothing for 
it but to keep his distance from the wrathful gentle¬ 
man, and so gallantly did Moonbeam respond that 
he was presently at the huntsman’s elbow. 

Had he known it, the grey was the faster of the 
two, though lacking Moonbeam’s sweet paces and 
lionlike heart. His enemy was up on him at once, 
and it looked as if there was nothing before him 
but to override hounds. But the discipline of the 
sport was stronger than a just wrath. The Squire 
took a pull on the grey and drew back. He was 
biding his time. 

Alastair seized the first chance, which came when 
hounds were engulfed in a wide wood of oaks on the 


136 A Man May Hunt with the Hounds 

edge of a heath. Taking advantage of a piece of 
thick cover, he caught Moonbeam by the head and 
swung him down a side glade. Unfortunately he 
was observed. An oath from Squire Thicknesse 
warned him that that sportsman had foregone the 
pleasure of being in at the death for the satisfac¬ 
tion of doing justice on a horse-thief. 

Now there was no hunt etiquette to be respected. 
The grey’s hooves spurned the rotten woodland turf, 
and pursuer and pursued crashed into a jungle of 
dry bulrushes and sallows. Alastair was saved by 
the superior agility of his horse, which could swerve 
and pivot where the heavier grey stumbled. He 
gained a yard or two, then a little more by a scram¬ 
ble through a gap, and a crazy scurry down a rabbit 
track. . . . He saw that his only chance was to 
slip off, for Moonbeam had the madness of the 
chase on him, and if left riderless would rejoin the 
hounds. So when he had gained some forty yards 
and was for the moment out of the Squire’s sight, 
he took his toes from the stirrups and flung himself 
into a bed of bracken. He rolled over and over into 
a dell, and when he came to a halt and could look up 
he saw the grey’s stern disappearing round the 
corner, and heard far off the swish and crash of 
Moonbeam’s flight. 

Not a second was to be lost, for the Squire would 
soon see that the rider had gone and turn back in 
the search for him. Alastair forced his stiff legs to 
a run, and turned in the direction which he thought 
the opposite of that taken by hounds. Up a small 
path he ran, among a scrub of hazels and down 
into a desert of red bracken and sparse oak trees. 
The noises in the wood grew fainter, and soon 


And Yet Run with the Hare 137 

his steps were the loudest sound, his steps and 
the heavy flight of an occasional scared pigeon. He 
ran till he had put at least a mile of rough land 
behind him, and had crossed several tracks, which 
would serve to mislead the pursuit. Lacking a 
bloodhound, it would not be easy to follow his trail. 
Then in a broader glade he came upon a thatched 
hovel, such as foresters and charcoal-burners use 
when they have business abroad in the night hours. 

Alastair crept up to it cautiously, and through a 
crack surveyed the interior. His face hardened and 
an odd light came into his eye. He strode to the 
door and pushed the crazy thing open. 

Within, breakfasting on a hunch of bread and 
cheese, sat the man Edom, Mr Kyd’s servant. 


Chapter VIII 


BROOM AT THE CROSS-ROADS 

r T 1 HE face before him had the tightened look of 
JL a sudden surprise: then it relaxed into recog¬ 
nition; but it showed no fear, though the young 
man’s visage was grim enough. 

“You are Mr Kyd’s servant?” 

“Your honour has it. I’m Edom Lowrie at your 
honour’s service.” 

“Your master started yesterday for Wiltshire. 
Why are you not with him?” 

The man looked puzzled. 

“Ye’re mista’en, sir. My master came here 
yestereen. I left him at skreigh o’ day this morn- 

• n 

mg. 

It was Alastair’s turn to stare. Kyd had lied to 
him, thinking it necessary to deceive him about his 
road—scurvy conduct, surely, between servants of 
the same cause. Or perhaps this fellow Edom was 
lying. He looked at him and saw no hint of double¬ 
dealing in the plain ugly face. His sandy eyebrows 
were indistinguishable from his freckled forehead 
and gave him an air of bald innocence, his pale eyes 
were candid and good-humoured, the eaves of his 
great teeth were comedy itself. The more Alastair 
gazed the harder he found it to believe that this 
rustic zany had betrayed him. But what on earth 
was Kyd about? 

“Where is your master now?” he asked. 

138 


Broom at the Cross-roads 139 

The other took off his hat and scratched his head. 
“I wadna like to say, sir. You see he telled me 
little, forbye sayin’ that he wadna see me again for 
the best pairt o’ a month. I jalouse mysel’ that he’s 
gone south, but he micht be for Wales.” 

“Were you in Flambury last night?” 

The man looked puzzled till Alastair explained. 
“Na, na, I was in nae village. I had a cauld damp 
bed in a bit public. My maister wasna there, but he 
appeared afore I was out o’ the blankets, a’ ticht and 
trim for the road, and gied me my marching-orders. 
I was to traivel the woods on foot, and no get mysel’ 
a horse till I won to a place they ca’ Camley.” 

“Are you for Scotland?” 

“Nae sic fortune. I’m for the Derbyshire muirs 
wi’ letters.” He hesitated. “Your honour’s no 
gaun that road yoursel’ ? I wad be blithe o’ com¬ 
pany.” 

The light in the hut was too dim to see clearly, 
for there was no window, the door was narrow and 
the day was sullen. 

“Step outside, Mr Lowrie, till I cast an eye over 
you,” said Alastair. 

The man pocketed the remains of his bread and 
cheese and shambled into the open. He wore a long 
horseman’s coat and boots, a plain hat without 
cocks, and carried a stout hazel riding-switch. He 
looked less like a lackey than some small yeoman of 
the Borders, habited for a journey to Carlisle or 
St Boswell’s Fair. 

“You know who I am,” said Alastair. “You are 
aware that like your master I am in a certain ser¬ 
vice, and that between him and me there are no 
secrets.” 


140 Broom at the Cross-roads 

“Aye, sir. I ken that ye’re Captain Maclean, and 
a gude Scot, though ower far north o’ Forth for my 
ain taste, if your honour will forgie me.” 

“You carry papers? I must know more of your 
journey. What is your goal?” 

“A bit the name o’ Brightwell near a hill they ca’ 
the Peak.” 

Alastair had not been prepared for this, had had 
no glimmering of a suspicion of it, and the news 
decided him. 

“It is of the utmost importance that I see your 
papers. Your master, if he were here now, would 
consent.” 

The man’s face flushed. “I kenna how that can 
be. Your honour wadna have me false to my trust.” 

“You will not be false. You travel on a matter 
of the Prince’s interest, as I do, and I must know 
your errand fully in order to shape my own course. 
Your master and I have equal rank in His High- 
ness’s councils.” 

The other shook his head, as if perplexed. “Nae 
doot—nae doot. But, ye see, sir, I've my orders, 
and I maun abide by them. ‘Pit thae letters,’ my 
maister says, ‘intil the hand of him ye ken o’ and 
let naebody else get a glisk o’ them.’ ” 

“Then it is my duty to take them by force,” said 
Alastair, showing the hilt of his sword and the butt 
of a pistol under his coat. 

Edom’s face cleared. 

“That is a wiser-like way o’ speakin’. If ye com¬ 
pel me I maun e’en submit, for ye’re a gentleman wi’ 
a sword and I’m a landward body wi’ nocht but a 
hazel wand. It’s no that I mistrust your honour, 
but we maun a’ preserve the decencies.” 


Broom at the Cross-roads 141 

He unbuttoned his coat, foraged in the recesses of 
his person, and from some innermost receptacle ex¬ 
tracted a packet tied with a dozen folds of cobbler’s 
twine. There was no seal to break, and Alastair slit 
the knots with his sword. Within was a bunch of 
papers of the same type as those he had received 
from Brother Gilly, and burned in the fire of the 
Dog and Gun. These he put in his pocket for 
further study. “I must read them carefully, for 
they contain that which must go straight to the 
Prince’s ear,” he told the perplexed messenger. 

But there was a further missive, which seemed to 
be a short personal note from Mr Kyd to the re¬ 
cipient of the papers. 

(( Dear Achilles” it ran. “Affairs march smoothly 
and the tide sets well to bring you to Troy town f 
where presently I design to crack a bottle and ex¬ 
change tales. The Lady Briseis purposes to join 
you and will not be dissuaded by her kinsman. A 
friendly word: mix caution with your ardour her- 
ward } for she has got a political enthusiasm and is 
devilish strong-headed. The news of the Marches 
and the West will travel to you with all expedition, 
but I must linger behind to encourage my correspon¬ 
dents. Menelaus greets you—a Menelaus that 
never owned a Helen.” 

The full sense of the document did not at first 
reach Alastair’s brain. But he caught the word 
“Achilles ” and remembered a girl’s whispered con¬ 
fidence the night before. A second phrase arrested 
him—“Briseis”—he remembered enough of Father 
Dominic’s teaching to identify the reference. This 
Norreys, this husband of the russet lady, was far 
deeper in the secrets of the Cause than he had 


142 Broom at the Cross-roads 

dreamed, if he were thus made the channel of vital 
intelligence. He was bidden act cautiously towards 
his new wife, and Mr Kyd, who had heard John¬ 
son’s accusations at Cornbury and said nothing, had 
all the time been in league with him. A sudden sense 
of a vast insecurity overcame the young man. The 
ground he trod on seemed shifting sand, and no¬ 
where was there a firm and abiding landmark. And 
the girl too was walking in dark ways, and when she 
thought that she tripped over marble and cedar was 
in truth skimming the crust of quicksands. He 
grew hot with anger. 

“Do you know the man to whom these are ad¬ 
dressed?” he asked with stern brows. 

Edom grinned. 

“I ken how to find him. I’m to speir in certain 
quarters for ane Achilles, and I mind eneuch o’ what 
the Lauder dominie lickit intil me to ken that 
Achilles was a braw sodger.” 

“You do not know his name? You never saw 
him ?” 

The man shook his head. “I wad like the letters 
back, sir,” he volunteered warily, for he was in¬ 
timidated by Alastair’s dark forehead. 

The latter handed back the Achilles letter, and 
began to read more carefully the other papers. 
Suddenly he raised his head and listened. The for¬ 
est hitherto had been still with the strange dead 
quiet of a November noon. But now the noise of 
hounds was heard again, not half a mile off, as if 
they were hunting a line in the brushwood. He 
awoke with a start to the fact of his danger. What 
better sport for the patrons of the Flambury Hunt 
than to ride down a Jacobite horse-thief? A vague 


Broom at the Cross-roads 


143 


fury possessed him against that foolish squire with 
the cherubic face and the vacant blue eye. 

“The hunt is cried after me,” he told Edom, “and 
I take it you too have no desire to advertise your 
whereabouts. For God’s sake let’s get out of this 
place. Where does this road lead?” 

Edom’s answer was drowned in a hubbub of 
hounds which seemed to be approaching down the 
ride from the east. Alastair led the way from the 
hut up a steepish hill, sparsely wooded with scrub 
oak, in the hope of finding a view-point. Unfortu¬ 
nately at the top the thicket was densest, so the 
young man swung himself into a tree and as quickly 
as riding-boots would permit sought a coign of van¬ 
tage in its upper branches. There he had the pros¬ 
pect he wanted—a great circle of rolling country, 
most of it woodland, but patched with large heaths 
where gorse-fires were smouldering. The piece of 
forest in which he sat stretched far to east and west, 
but to the north was replaced in less than a mile by 
pasture and small enclosures. As he looked he saw 
various things to disquiet him. The grassy road 
they had left was visible for half a mile, and down 
it came horsemen, while at the other end there 
seemed to be a picket placed. Worse still, to the 
north, which was the way of escape he had thought 
of, there were mounted men at intervals along the 
fringe of the trees. The hounds could be heard 
drawing near in the scrub east of the hut, and men s 
voices accompanied them. He remembered that 
they would find the hut door open, see the crumbs 
of Edom’s bread and cheese, and no doubt discover 
the track which led up the hill. 

He scrambled to the ground, his heart filled with 


144 Broom at the Cross-roads 

forebodings and a deep disgust. He, who should 
long ago have been in the battle-field among the 
leaders, was befogged in this remote country-side, 
pursued by yokels, clogged and hampered at every 
step, and yet with the most desperate urgency of 
haste to goad him forward. His pride was outraged 
by such squalid ill-fortune. He must get his head 
from the net which was entangling and choking him. 
But for the moment there was nothing for it but to 
cower like a hare, and somewhere in the deep scrub 
find a hiding-place. Happily a fox-hound was not 
a bloodhound. 

Down the other side of the hill they went, Edom 
panting heavily and slipping every second yard. At 
the bottom they came on another road ^running 
parallel with the first, and were about to cross it 
when a sound from in front gave them pause. There 
were men there, keepers perhaps, beating the under¬ 
growth and whistling. The two turned to the west 
and ran down the track, keeping as far as possible 
in the shadow of the adjacent coppice. A fine rain 
was beginning, which brought with it a mist that 
lowered the range of vision to a few hundred yards. 
In that lay Alastair’s one hope. Let the weather 
thicken and he would undertake to elude all the 
foresters and fox-hunters in England. He cursed 
the unfamiliar land, which had no hills where fleet¬ 
ness of foot availed or crags where a bold man could 
laugh at pursuit. 

The place seemed terribly full of folk, as if whole 
parishes had emptied their population to beat the 
covers. Now he realised that the mist had its draw¬ 
backs as well as its merits, for he might stumble 
suddenly into a posse of searchers, and, though he 


Broom at the Cross-roads 


145 


himself might escape, the clumsier Edom would be 
taken. He bade the latter choose a line of his own 
and save himself, as he was not the object of the 
hunt, and owed his chief danger to his company, but 
this the man steadfastly refused to do. He ploughed 
stubbornly along in Alastair’s wake, wheezing like 
a bellows. 

Then the noises seemed to die down, and the two 
continued in a dripping quiet. It was idle to think 
of leaving the forest, and the best that could be done 
was to find a hiding-place when they were certain 
that the pursuit was outdistanced. But this meant 
delay, and these slow rustics might keep up their 
watch for a week. . . . 

Presently they came to a cross-roads, where a 
broader path cut their ride, and in the centre stood 
an old rotting stake, where long ago some outlaw 
may have swung. They halted, for Edom had his 
breath to get. He flung himself on the ground, and 
at that moment Alastair caught sight of something 
tied to the post. Going nearer, he saw that it was 
a bunch of broom. 

Had his wits not been sharpened by danger and 
disgust it might have had no meaning for him. But, 
as it was, Midwinter’s parting words on Otmoor 
came back to him, and with it the catch which he 
had almost forgotten. As Edom lay panting, he 
shaped his lips to whistle the air. In the quiet the 
tune rang out clear and shrill, and as he finished 
there was silence again. Then the bushes parted, 
and a man came out. 

He was a charcoal-burner, with a face like an 
Ethiopian, and red sore eyes curiously ringed about 
with clean white skin. 


146 


Broom at the Cross-roads 


“Ye have the tune, master,” he said. “What be 
your commands for the Spoonbills? Folks be 
huntin’ these woods, and maybe it’s you as they’re 
seekin’.” 

“The place is surrounded,” said Alastair, “and 
they are beating the covers between the rides. Get 
us out, or show us how we can be hid.” 

The man did not hesitate. “Escape’s better’n 
hidin’,” he said. “Follow me, sirs, and I’ll do my 
best for ye.” 

He led them at a great pace some two hundred 
yards into a tiny dell. There a glaze hung in the 
dull air from a charcoal-oven, which glowed under 
a mound of sods. Neat piles of oak and birch bil¬ 
lets stood around, and the shafts of a cart stuck up 
out of the long bracken. On one side an outcrop of 
rock made a fine wind-shelter, and, pushing aside the 
creepers w T hich veiled it, the charcoal-burner re¬ 
vealed a small cave. 

“Off with your clothes, sirs,” he said. “They’ll 
be safe enough in that hidy-hole till I gets a chance 
to return ’em. Them rags is my mate’s, and in this 
pickle are better’n fine silks.” 

Two filthy old smocks were unearthed, and two 
pairs of wooden-soled clogs which replaced their 
boots. The change was effected swiftly under the 
constant urging of the charcoal-burner, who kept his 
ears cocked and his head extended like a dog. In 
five minutes Alastair was outwardly a figure differing 
only in complexion from the master of the dingle. 
Then the latter set to work, and with a handful of 
hot charcoal smeared hands and faces, rubbing the 
dirt into the eye-sockets so that the eyes smarted 
and watered. Hats and cravats were left in the 


Broom at the Cross-roads 147 

cave, and Alastair’s trim hair was roughly clubbed, 
and dusted with soot for powder. There was no 
looking-glass to show him the result, but the char¬ 
coal-burner seemed satisfied. The transformation 
was simpler for Edom, who soon to Alastair’s eyes 
looked as if he had done nothing all his days but 
tend a smoky furnace. 

“I’ll do the talking if we happen to meet inquir¬ 
ing folk,” the charcoal-burner admonished them. 
“Look sullen and keep your eyes on the ground, and 
spit—above all, spit. Ours is a dry trade.” 

He led them back to the main ride, and then 
boldly along the road which pointed north. The 
forest had woke up, and there were sounds of life 
on every side. The hounds had come out of covert 
and were being coaxed in again by a vociferous 
huntsman. Echoes of “Sweetlip,” “Rover,” “True¬ 
man,” mingled with sundry oaths, came gustily down 
the v/ind. Someone far off blew a horn incessantly, 
and in a near thicket there was a clamour of voices 
like those of beaters after roebuck. The three men 
tramped stolidly along, the two novices imitating as 
best they could the angular gait, as of one who rarely 
stretched his legs, and the blindish carriage of the 
charcoal-burner. 

A knot of riders swept down on them. Alastair 
ventured to lift his eyes for one second, and saw the 
scarlet and plum colour of Squire Thicknesse and 
noted the grey’s hocks. The legs finicking and 
waltzing near them he thought belonged to Moon¬ 
beam, and was glad that the horse had been duly 
caught and restored. The Squire asked a question 
of the charcoal-burner and was answered in a dialect 
of gutturals. Off surged the riders, and presently 


148 Broom at the Cross-roads 

the three were at the edge of the trees where a 
forester’s cottage smoked in the rain. Beyond, 
wrapped in a white mist, stretched ploughland and 
pasture. 

Alastair saw that his tree-top survey had been 
right. This edge of the wood was all picketed, and 
as the three emerged a keeper in buckskin breeches 
came towards them, and a man on horseback turned 
at his cry and cantered back. 

The keeper did not waste time on them, once he 
had a near view. 

“Yah!” he said, “it’s them salvages o’ coalies. 
They ain’t got eyes to obsarve nothin’, pore souls! 
’Ere, Billy,” he cried, “seen any strange gen’elmen 
a-wanderin’ the woods this morning?” 

The charcoal-burner stopped, and the two others 
formed up sullenly behind him. 

“There wor a fallow-buck a routin’ round my 
foorness,” he grumbled in a voice as thick as clay. 
“Happen it come to some ’urt, don’t blame me, 
gossip. Likewise there’s a badger as is makin’ an 
earth where my birch-faggots should lie. That’s all 
the strange gen’elmen I seen this marnin’, barrin’ 
a pack o’ red-coats a-gallopin’ ’orses and blowin’ 
’orns.” 

The rider had now arrived and was looking curi¬ 
ously at the three. The keeper in corduroy breeches 
turned laughing to him. “Them coalies is pure 
salvages, Mr Gervase, sir. Brocks and bucks, in¬ 
deed, when I’m inquirin’ for gen’elmen. Gawd 
A’mighty made their ’eads as weak as their eyes.” 

What answer the rider gave is not known, for the 
charcoal-burners had already moved forward. They 
crossed a piece of plough and reached a shallow vale 


Broom at the Cross-roads 149 

seamed by a narrow stagnant brook. Here they 
were in shelter, and to Alastair’s surprise their 
leader began to run. He took them at a good pace 
up the water till it was crossed by a high-road, then 
along a by-path, past a farm-steading, to a strip of 
woodland, which presently opened out into a wide 
heath. Here in deference to Edom’s heaving chest 
he slackened pace. The rain was changing from a 
drizzle to a heavy downpour and the faces of the 
two amateurs were becoming a ghastly piebald with 
the lashing of the weather. 

The charcoal-burner turned suddenly to Alastair 
and spoke in a voice which had no trace of dialect. 

“You have escaped one danger, sir. I do not 
know who you may be or what your desires are, but 
I am bound to serve you as far as it may lie in my 
power. Do you wish me to take you to my master?” 

“I could answer that better, if I knew who he 
was.” 

“We do not speak his name at large, but in a 
month’s time the festival of his name-day will re¬ 
turn.” 

Alastair nodded. The thought of Midwinter 
came suddenly to him with an immense comfort. 
He, if any one could, would help him out of this mi- 
asmic jungle in which his feet were entangled and 
set him again upon the highway. His head was still 
confused with the puzzle of Kyd’s behaviour— 
Edom’s errand, the exact part played by Sir John 
Norreys, above all the presence of a subtle treason. 
He remembered the deep eyes and the wise brow of 
the fiddler of Otmoor, and had he not that very day 
seen a proof of his power? 

The heath billowed and sank into ridges and 


150 Broom at the Cross-roads 

troughs, waterless and furze-clad, and in one of the 
latter they came suddenly upon a house. It was a 
small place, built with its back to a steep ridge all 
overgrown with blackberries and heather—two 
stories high, and flanked by low thatched outbuild¬ 
ings, and a pretence at a walled garden. On the 
turf before the door, beside an ancient well, a sign 
on a pole proclaimed it the inn of The Merry 
Woman, but suns and frosts had long since oblit¬ 
erated all trace of the rejoicing lady, though below 
it and more freshly painted was something which 
might have resembled a human eye. 

The three men lounged into the kitchen, which 
was an appanage to the main building, and called for 
ale. It was brought by a little old woman in a 
mutch, who to Alastair’s surprise curtseyed to the 
grimy figure of the charcoal-burner. 

“He’s alone, sir,” she said, “and your own room’s 
waiting if you’re ready for it.” 

“Will you go up to him?” the charcoal-burner 
asked, and Alastair followed the old woman. She 
led the way up a narrow staircase with a neat sheep¬ 
skin rug on each tread, to a tiny corridor from 
which two rooms opened. The one on the left they 
entered and found an empty bedroom, cleanly and 
plainly furnished. A door in the wall at the other 
end, concealed by a hanging cupboard, gave access 
to a pitch-dark passage. The woman took Alastair’s 
hand and led him a yard or two till she found a 
door-handle. It opened and showed a large chamber 
with daylight coming through windows apparently 
half cloaked with creepers. Alastair realised that 
the room had been hollowed out of the steep behind 


Broom at the Cross-roads 151 

the house, and that the windows opened in the briars 
and heath of the face. 

A fire was burning and a man sat beside it read¬ 
ing in a book. He was the fiddler of Otmoor, and 
in the same garb, save that he had discarded his 
coat and wore instead a long robe de chambre. A 
keen eye scanned the visitor, and then followed a 
smile and an outstretched hand. 

“Welcome, Alastair Maclean,” he said. “I heard 
of you in these parts and hoped for a meeting.” 

“From whom?” 

“One whom you call the Spainneach. He left 
me this morning to go into Derbyshire.” 

The name stirred a question. 

“Had he news?” Alastair asked. “When I last 
saw you you prophesied failure. Are you still of 
that mind?” 

“I do not prophesy, but this I say—that since 
I saw you your chances and your perils have grown 
alike. Your Cause is on the razor-edge and you 
yourself may have the deciding.” 


Chapter IX 


OLD ENGLAND 


ESTERDAY morning your Prince was en- 



JL camped outside Carlisle. By now the place 
may have fallen.” 

“Who told you?” Alastair asked. 

“I have my own messengers who journey in Old 
England,” said Midwinter. “Consider, Captain 
Maclean. As a bird flies, the place is not a hundred 
and fifty miles distant, and no mile is without its 
people. A word cried to a traveller is taken up by 
another and another till the man who rubs down a 
horse at night in a Chester inn-yard will have news 
of what befell at dawn on the Scotch Border. My 
way is quicker than post-horses. . . . But the 
name of inn reminds me. You have the look of a 
fasting man.” 

Food was brought, and the November brume hav¬ 
ing fallen thick in the hollow, the windows were 
curtained, a lamp lit, and fresh fuel laid on the fire. 
Alastair kicked the boots from his weary legs, and 
as soon as his hunger was stayed fell to questioning 
his host; for he felt that till he could point a finger 
to the spy who had dogged him he had failed in his 
duty to the Cause. He poured out his tale without 
reserve. 

Midwinter bent his brows and stared into the 
fire. 

“You are satisfied that this servant Edom is 
honest?” he asked. 


152 


153 


Old England 

“I have observed him for half a day and the man 
is as much in the dark as myself. If he is a rogue 
he is a master in dissimulation. But I do not 
think so.” 

“Imprimis, you are insulted in the Flambury inn 
by those who would fasten a quarrel on you. Item, 
you are arrested and carried before this man Thick- 
nesse, and one dressed like a mummer presses the 
accusation. Item, in a warrant you and your pur¬ 
poses are described with ominous accuracy. You 
are likewise this very day tricked by your gypsy 
guide, but that concerns rather my lady Norreys. 
These misfortunes came upon you after you had 
supped with Kyd, and therefore you suspected his 
servant, for these two alone in this country-side 
knew who you were. A fairly argued case, I con¬ 
cede, and to buttress it Kyd appears to have been 
near Flambury last night, when he professed to be 
on the road for Wiltshire. But you have ceased to 
suspect the servant. What of the master?” 

Alastair started. “No, no. That is madness. 
The man is in the very heart of the Prince’s coun¬ 
sels. He is honest, I swear—he is too deep com¬ 
mitted.” 

Midwinter nodded. “If he were false, it would 
indeed go ill with you; for on him, I take it, depends 
the rising of Wales and the Marches. He holds 
your Prince in the hollow of his hand. And if all 
tales be true the omens there are happy.” 

Alastair told of the message from Brother Gilly, 
and, suddenly remembering Edom’s papers, drew 
them from his pocket, and read them again by the 
firelight. Here at last was news from Badminton 
and from Monmouth and Hereford: and at the 


154 


Old England 

foot, in the cypher which was that most commonly 
used among the Jacobites, was a further note dealing 
with Sir Watkin Wynn. The writer had concerted 
with him a plan, by which the Welsh levies should 
march straight through Gloucester and Oxfordshire 
to cut in between Cumberland and the capital. To 
Alastair, the thing w T as proved authentic beyond 
doubt, for it bore the pass-word which had been 
agreed between himself and Sir Watkin a week 
before at Wynnstay. 

He fell into a muse from which he was roused by 
Midwinter’s voice. 

“Kyd receives messages and forwards them north¬ 
ward, while he himself remains in the South. By 
what channel?” 

“It would appear by Sir John Norreys, who is 
now, or soon will be, at Brightwell under the Peak.” 

As he spoke the words his suspicions took a new 
course. Johnson had thought the man a time¬ 
server, though he had yesterday recanted that view. 
Sir Christopher Lacy at Cornbury had been positive 
that he was a rogue. The only evidence to the 
contrary was that his wife believed in him, and that 
he had declared his colours by forsaking his bride 
for the Prince’s camp. But he had not gone to the 
army, and it would seem that he had no immediate 
intention of going there, for according to Edom he 
would be at Brightwell during the month; and as 
for his wife’s testimony, she was only a romantic 
child. Yet this man was the repository of Kyd’s 
secret information, the use of which meant for the 
Prince a kingdom or a beggar’s exile. If Kyd were 
mistaken in him, then the Cause was sold in very 
truth. But how came Kyd to be linked with him? 


155 


Old England 

How came a young Oxfordshire baronet, of no great 
family, and no record of service, to be Achilles of 
the innermost circle? 

He told his companion of his doubts, unravelling 
each coil carefully, while the other marked his points 
with jerks of his pipe-bowl. When he had finished 
Midwinter kept silent for a little. Then “You 
swear by Kyd’s fidelity,” he asked. 

“God in Heaven, but I must,” cried Alastair. 
“If he is false, I may return overseas to-morrow.” 

“It is well to test all links in a chain,” was the dry 
answer. “But for the take of argument we will 
assume him honest. Sir John Norreys is the next 
link to be tried. If he is rotten, then the Prince 
had better bide north of Ribble, for the Western 
auxiliaries will never move. But even if the whole 
hive be false, there is still hope if you act at once. 
This is my counsel to you, Captain Maclean. Write 
straightway to the Army—choose the man about 
the Prince who loves you most—and tell him of the 
great things to be hoped for from the West. Name 
no names, but promise before a certain date to 
arrive with full proof, and bid them hasten south 
without delay. An invasion needs heartening, and 
if the worst should be true no word from Kyd is 
likely to reach the Prince. Hearten him, therefore, 
so that he marches to meet you. That is the first 
thing. The second is that you go yourself into 
Derbyshire to see this Sir John Norreys. If he be 
true man you will find a friend; if not you may be in 
time to undo his treason.” 

The advice was what had dimly been shaping it¬ 
self in Alastair’s own mind. His ardour to be back 
with the Army, which for days had been a fever in 


156 


Old England 

his bones, had now changed to an equal ardour to 
solve the riddle which oppressed him. Midwinter 
was right; the Cause was on a razor edge and with 
him might lie the deciding. . . . There was black 
treachery somewhere, and far more vital for the 
Prince than any victory in Scotland was the keeping 
the road open for West England to join him. 
Shadows of many reasons flitted across his mind and 
gave strength to his resolve. He would see this 
man Norreys who had won so adorable a lady. He 
would see the lady again, and at the thought some¬ 
thing rose in his heart which surprised him, for it 
was almost joy. 

“Have you paper and ink?” he asked, and from 
a cupboard Midwinter produced them and set them 
before him. 

He wrote to Lochiel, who was his kinsman, for 
though he knew Lord George Murray there was a 
certain jealousy between them. Very roughly he 
gave the figures which he had gleaned from Brother 
Gilly’s letter and that taken from Edom. He 
begged him to move the Prince to march without 
hesitation for the capital, and promised to reach his 
camp with full information before the month ended. 
“And the camp will, I trust, be by that time no 
further from St James’s than-” He asked Mid¬ 

winter for a suitable place, and was told “Derby.” 
He subscribed himself with the affection of a kins¬ 
man and old playmate of Morvern and Lochaber. 

“I will see that it reaches its destination,” said 
Midwinter. “And now for the second task. The 
man Edom is not suspect and can travel by the high 
road. I will send him with one who will direct him 
to my lady Norreys’ party, which this day, as you 



Old England 157 

tell me, sets out for Derbyshire. For yourself I 
counsel a discreeter part. Mark you, sir, you are 
sought by sundry gentlemen in Flambury as a Jaco¬ 
bite, and by Squire Thicknesse and his Hunt as a 
horse thief. In this land suspicion is slow to waken, 
but it runs fast and dies hard. Rumour of your 
figure, face, clothes, manner and bloodthirsty spirit 
will have already flown fifty miles. If you would be 
safe you must sink into Old England.” 

“I will sink into Acheron if it will better my 
purpose.” 

Midwinter regarded him critically. “Your mod¬ 
ish clothes are in Kit’s locker, and will duly be sent 
after you. Now you are the born charcoal-burner, 
save that your eyes are too clear and your finger 
nails unscorched. The disguise has served your 
purpose to-day, but it is too kenspeckle except in 
great woodlands. Mother Jonnet will find you a 
better. For the rest I will guide you, for I have 
the key.” 

“Where is this magic country?” 

“All around you—behind the brake, across the 
hedgerow, under the branches. Some can stretch a 
hand and touch it—to others it is a million miles 
away.” 

“As a child I knew it,” said Alastair, laughing. 
“I called it Fairyland.” 

Midwinter nodded. “Children are free of it, but 
their elders must earn admission. It is a safe land— 
at any rate it is secure from common perils.” 

“But it has its own dangers?” 

“It makes a man look into his heart, and he may 
find that in it which destroys him. Also it is ambi¬ 
tion’s mortal foe. But if you walk in it you will 


158 


Old England 

come to Brightwell without obstruction, for the 
King’s writ does not run in the greenwood.” 

“Whose is the law, then?” Alastair asked. 

For answer Midwinter went to the window and 
flung it open. “My fiddle cannot speak except with 
free air about it,” he said. “If any drunken rustic 
is on the heath he will think the pixies are abroad.” 

He picked up the violin which had been lying on 
the table behind him, and drew forth a slow broken 
music, which presently changed into a rhythmical 
air. At first it was like the twanging of fine wires 
in a wind, mingled with an echo of organ music 
heard over a valley full of tree-tops. It was tame 
and homely, yet with a childish inconsequence in it. 
Then it grew wilder, and though the organ notes 
remained it was an organ that had never sounded 
within church walls. The tune went with a steady 
rhythm, the rhythm of growing things in spring, of 
seasonal changes; but always ran the undercurrent of 
a leaping bacchanal madness, of long wild dances in 
bare places. The fiddle ceased on a soft note, and 
the fiddler fell to singing in a voice so low that the 
words and air only just rose above the pitch of 
silence. “Diana and her darling crew,” he sang. 

“Diana and her darling crew 
Will pluck your fingers fine, 

And lead you forth right pleasantly 
To drink the honey wine,— 

To drink the honey wine, my dear, 

And sup celestial air, 

And dance as the young angels dance, 

Ah, God, that I were there!” 

“Hers is the law,” he said. “Diana, or as some 
say, Proserpina. Old folks call her the Queen of 


159 


Old England 

Elfhame. But over you and me, as baptized souls, 
she has no spell but persuasion. You can hear her 
weeping at midnight because her power is gone.” 

Then his mood changed. He laid down the 
fiddle and shouted on Mother Jonnet to bring sup¬ 
per. Edom, too, was sent for, and during the meal 
was closely catechised. He bore it well, professing 
no undue honesty beyond a good servant’s, but stiff 
on his few modest scruples. When he heard Mid¬ 
winter’s plans for him, he welcomed them, and 
begged that in the choice of a horse his precarious 
balance and round thighs might be charitably con¬ 
sidered. Alastair returned him the letter and 
watched him fold it up with the others and shove it 
inside his waistcoat. A prolonged study of that 
mild, concerned, faintly humorous face convinced 
him that Edom Lowrie was neither fox nor goose. 
He retired to bed to dream of Mr Kyd’s jolly 
countenance, which had mysteriously acquired a very 
sharp nose. 

Edom went off in the early morning in company 
with the man called Kit and mounted on an ambling 
forest cob whose paces he whole-heartedly approved. 
Alastair washed himself like a Brahmin in a tub of 
hot water in the back-kitchen, and dressed himself 
in the garments provided by Mother Jonnet—frieze 
and leather and coarse woollen stockings and square- 
toed country shoes. The haze of yesterday had 
gone, and the sky was a frosty blue, with a sharp 
wind out of the north-east. He breakfasted with 
Midwinter off cold beef and beer and a dish of 
grilled ham, and then stood before the door breath¬ 
ing deep of the fresh chilly morning. The change 


160 


Old England 

of garb or the prospect before him had rid him of 
all the languor of the past week. He felt extraor¬ 
dinarily lithe and supple of limb, as in the old days 
when he had driven deer on the hills before the 
autumn dawn. Had he but had the free swing of a 
kilt at his thighs and the screes of Ben Aripol before 
him he would have recaptured his boyhood. 

Midwinter looked at him with approval. 

“You are clad as a man should be for Old Eng¬ 
land, and you have the legs for the road we travel. 
We do not ride, for we go where no horse can go. 
Put not your trust in horses, saith the Scriptures, 
which I take to mean that a man in the last resort 
should depend on his own shanks. Boot and spur 
must stick to the paths, and the paths are but a tiny 
bit of England. How sits the wind? North by 
east? There is snow coming, but not in the next 
thirty hours, and if it comes, it will not stay us. 
En avant, mon capitaine ” 

At a pace which was marvellous for one of his 
figure, Midwinter led the way over the heath, and 
then plunged into a tangled wood of oaks. He 
walked like a mountaineer, swinging from the hips, 
the body a little bent forward, and his long even 
strides devoured the ground. Even so, Alastair 
reminded himself, had the hunters at Glentarnit 
breasted the hill, while his boyish steps had toiled 
in their rear. Sometimes on level ground he would 
break into a run, as if his body’s vigour needed an 
occasional burst of speed to chasten it. The young 
man exulted in the crisp air and the swift motion. 
The stiffness of body and mind which had beset him 
ever since he left Scotland vanished under this cor¬ 
dial, he lost his doubts and misgivings, and felt 


161 


Old England 

again that lifting ardour of the heart which is the 
glory of youth. His feet were tireless, his limbs 
were as elastic as a sword-blade, his breath as deep 
as a grey-hound’s. Two days before, jogging in 
miry lanes, he had seemed caught and stifled in a 
net; now he was on a hill-top, and free as the wind 
that plucked at his hair. 

It is probable that Midwinter had for one of his 
purposes the creation of this happy mood, for he 
kept up the pace till after midday, when they came 
to a high deer-fence, beyond which stretched a ferny 
park. Here they slackened speed, their faces glow¬ 
ing like coals, and, skirting the park, reached a 
thatched hut which smoked in a dell. A woman 
stood at the door, who at the sight of the two would 
have retired inside, had not Midwinter whistled 
sharply on his fingers. She blinked and shaded her 
eyes with her hand against the frosty sunshine; then 
to Alastair’s amazement she curtseyed deep. 

Midwinter did not halt, but asked if Jeremy were 
at the stone pit. 

“He be, Master,” was her answer. “Will ye 
stop to break bread?” 

“Nay, Jeremy shall feed us,” he cried, and led 
the way up the dingle where a brook flowed in reedy 
pools. Presently there was a sound of axe-blows, 
and, rounding a corner, they came on a man cutting 
poles from a thicket of saplings. Again Midwinter 
whistled, and the woodcutter dropped his tool and 
turned with a grinning face, pulling at his fore¬ 
lock. 

Midwinter sat down on a tree-trunk. 

“Jeremy, lad, you behold two hungry men wait¬ 
ing to sample the art of the best cook in the Borton 


162 


Old England 

Hundreds. Have you the wherewithal, or must we 
go back to your wife?” 

“I has, I surely has,” was the answer. “Be 
pleased to be seated, kind sirs, and Jerry Tusser 
will have your meat ready before ye have rightly 
eased your legs. This way, Master, this way.” 

He led them to a pit where a fire burned between 
three stones and a kettle bubbled. Plates of coarse 
earthenware were brought from some hiding-place, 
and in five minutes Alastair was supping with an 
iron spoon as savoury a stew as he had ever eaten. 
The fruits of Jeremy’s snares were in it, and the 
fruits of Jeremy’s old fowling piece, and it was 
flavoured with herbs whose merits the world has 
forgotten. The hot meal quickened his vigour, and 
he was on his feet before Midwinter had done, like 
a dog eager to be on the road again. 

He heard the man speak low to Midwinter. 
“Dook o’ Kingston’s horse,” he heard and a hand 
was jerked northward. 

In the afternoon the way lay across more open 
country, which Midwinter seemed to know like the 
palm of his hand, for he made points for some ridge 
or tree-top, and yet was never held up by brook or 
fence or dwelling. The air had grown sharper, 
clouds were banking in the east, and a wind w r as 
moaning in the tops of the high trees. Alastair 
seemed to have been restored to the clean world of 
his youth, after long absence among courts and 
cities. He noted the w r oodcock flitting between the 
bracken and the leafless boughs, and the mallards 
silently flighting from mere to stubble. A wedge of 
geese moving south made him turn his face sky¬ 
ward, and a little later he heard a wild whistle, and 


163 


Old England 

saw far up in the heavens a line of swans. His 
bodily strength was great as ever, but he had ceased 
to exult in it, and was ready to observe and medi¬ 
tate. 

A highway cut the forest, and the two behind a 
bush of box watched a company of riders jingle 
down it. They were rustic fellows, poor horsemen 
most of them, mounted on every variety of beast, 
and at the head rode a smarter youth, with brand- 
new holsters out of which peeped the butts of an¬ 
cient pistols. 

“Recruits for the Duke of Kingston,” Midwinter 
whispered. “They rendezvous at Nottingham, I 
hear. Think you they will make a good match of 
it with your Highland claymores?” 

Night fell when they were still in the open, and 
Midwinter, after halting for a second to take his 
bearings, led the way to a wood which seemed to 
flow in and out of a shallow vale. 

“The night will be cold, Captain Maclean, and a 
wise man takes comfort when he can find it. I 
could find you twenty lodgings, but we will take the 
warmest.” 

The woodland path ended in a road which seemed 
to be the avenue to a great house. It was soon very 
dark, and Alastair heard the rustling of animals 
which revived some ancestral knowledge, for he 
could distinguish the different noises which were 
rabbit, badger, stoat and deer. Down the avenue 
Midwinter led unconcernedly, and then turned off 
to a group of buildings which might have been sta¬ 
bles. He bade Alastair wait while he went for¬ 
ward, and after some delay returned with a man 
who carried a lantern. The fellow, seen in the dim 


164 


Old England 

light, was from his dress an upper servant, and his 
bearing was in the extreme respectful. He bowed 
to Alastair, and led them through a gate into a 
garden, where their feet rang on flagged stones and 
rustled against box borders. A mass loomed up on 
the left which proved to be a great mansion. 

The servant admitted them by a side door, and 
led them to a room, where he lit a dozen candles 
from his lantern, and revealed a panelled octagonal 
chamber hung with full-length portraits of forbid¬ 
ding gentlemen. There he left them, and when he 
returned it was with an elderly butler in undress, 
who bowed with the same deferent decorum. 

“His lordship has gone since yesterday into 
Yorkshire, sir,” he informed Midwinter. “I will 
have the usual rooms made ready for you at once, 
and you can sup in my lord’s cabinet which is 
adjacent.” 

The two travellers soon found themselves warm¬ 
ing their feet before a bright fire, while some thou¬ 
sands of volumes in calf and vellum looked down 
on them from the walls. They supped royally, but 
Alastair was too drowsy for talk, and his body had 
scarcely touched the sheets of his bed before he was 
asleep. He was woke before dawn, shaved and 
dressed by the butler, and given breakfast—with 
China tea in place of beer—in the same cabinet. 
It was still dark when the first servant of the night 
before conducted them out of the house by the same 
side door, led them across the shadowy park, and 
through a gate in the wall ushered them out to a 
dusky common, where trees in the creeping light 
stood up like gibbets. Midwinter led off at a trot, 
and at a trot they crossed the common and put 


165 


Old England 

more than one little valley behind them, so that 
when day dawned fully there was no sign in all the 
landscape of their night’s lodging. 

“Whose was the house?” Alastair asked, and was 
told—“We name no names in Old England.” 

The second day was to Alastair like the first for 
joy in the movement of travel, but the weather had 
grown bitterly cold and unfallen snow was heavy 
in the leaden sky. The distances were still clear, 
and though all the morning the road seemed to lie 
in hollows and dales, yet he had glimpses in the 
north of high blue ridges. Other signs told him 
that he was nearing the hills. The streams ceased 
to be links of sluggish pools, and chattered in 
rapids. He saw a water ouzel with its white cravat 
flash from the cover of a stone bridge. A flock of 
plovers which circled over one heath proved to be 
not green but golden. He told this to Midwinter, 
who nodded and pointed to a speck in the sky. 

“There is better proof,” he said. 

The bird dropped closer to earth, and showed 
itself as neither sparrow-hawk nor kestrel, but 
merlin. 

“We are nearing the hills,” he said, “but Bright- 
well is far up the long valleys. We will not reach 
it before to-morrow night.” 

Just at the darkening the first snow fell. They 
were descending a steep boulder-strewn ridge to a 
stream of some size, which swirled in icy grey pools. 
Above them hung a tree-crowned hill now dim with 
night, and ere they reached the cover on its crest 
the flakes were thick about them. Midwinter 
grunted, and broke into a trot along the ridge. 
“Ill weather,” he croaked, “and a harder bed than 


166 


Old England 

yestereen. We’ll have to make shift with tinkler’s 
fare. They told me at Harrowden that Job Lee’s 
pack were in the Quarters Wood, and Job has some 
notion of hospitality. Job it must be, for the snow 
is fairly come.” 

In a broad coombe on the sheltered side of the 
ridge they came presently on a roaring fire of roots 
with three tents beside it, so placed that they were 
free alike from wind and smoke. The snow was 
falling hard, and beginning to drift, when Mid¬ 
winter strode into the glow, and the man he called 
Job Lee—a long man with untied hair brushing his 
shoulders and a waistcoat of dyed deerskin—took 
his right hand between both of his and carried it to 
his lips. The newcomers shook themselves like 
dogs and were allotted one of the tents, thereby 
ousting two sleeping children who staggered to the 
hospitality of their father’s bed. They supped off 
roast hare and strong ale, and slept till the wintry 
sun had climbed the Derbyshire hills and lit a world 
all virgin-white. 

“The Almighty has sent a skid for our legs,” 
Midwinter muttered as he watched the wet logs 
hiss in Job Lee’s morning fire. “We can travel 
slow, for the roads will be heavy for my lady.” So 
they did not start till the forenoon was well ad¬ 
vanced, and as soon as possible exchanged the 
clogged and slippery hillside for a valley road. A 
wayside inn gave them a scrag of boiled mutton for 
dinner, and thereafter they took a short cut over a 
ridge of hill to reach the dale at whose head lay 
the house of Brightwell. On the summit they 
halted to reconnoitre, for the highway was visible 
there for many miles. 


167 


Old England 

Just below them at the road side, where a tribu¬ 
tary way branched off, stood an inn of some pre¬ 
tensions, whose sign was deciphered by Alastair’s 
hawk eyes as a couchant stag. Fresh snow was 
massing on the horizon, but for the moment the air 
was diamond clear. There had been little traffic 
on the road since morning and that only foot pas¬ 
sengers, with one horse’s tracks coming down the 
valley. These tracks did not pass the door, there¬ 
fore the horseman must be within. There were no 
signs of a coach’s wheels, so Lady Norreys had not 
yet arrived. He lifted his eyes and looked down 
the stream. There, a mile or so distant, moved a 
dark cluster, a coach apparently and attendant 
riders. 

The snow was on them again and Alastair bowed 
his head to the blast. “They will lie at that inn,” 
said Midwinter. “Brightwell is half a dozen miles 
on, and the road is dangerous. You will, of course, 
join them. I will accompany you to the door and 
leave you, for I have business in Sherwood that can¬ 
not wait.” 

Again Alastair peered through the snow. He 
saw a man come out of the inn door as in a great 
hurry, mount a waiting horse, and clatter off up the 
vale—a tall man in a horseman’s cloak with a high 
collar. Then a little later came the vanguard of 
the approaching party to bespeak quarters. The 
two men watched till the coach came abreast the 
door, and a slender hooded figure stepped from it. 
Then they began to make their way down the hill¬ 
side. 


Chapter X 


SNOWBOUND AT THE SLEEPING DEER 

r HE whole staff of the Sleeping Deer w r ere 
around the door when my lady Norreys, 
making dainty grimaces at the weather, tripped 
over the yards of snow-powdered cobbles between 
the step of her coach and the comfortable warmth 
of the inn. The landlord, ill-favoured and old, 
was there with his bow, and the landlady, handsome 
and not yet forty, with her curtsey, and in the gal¬ 
lery which ran round the stone-flagged hall the 
chambermaid tribe of Dollys and Peggys clustered 
to regard the newcomer, for pretty young ladies of 
quality did not lie every night at a moorland hos¬ 
telry. But the lady w r ould not tarry to warm her 
toes by the great fire or to taste the landlady’s cor¬ 
dials. A fire had been bespoke in her bedchamber 
and there she retired to drink tea, which her 
woman, Mrs Peckover, made with the secret airs 
of a plotter in the sanctum beside the bar. The 
two servants from Weston attended the coach in the 
inn-yard. Mr Edom Lowrie comforted himself 
with a pot of warm ale, while Mr Samuel Johnson, 
finding a good fire in the parlour, removed his 
shoes, and toasted at the ribs his great worsted 
stocking soles. 

Twenty minutes later, when the bustle had sub¬ 
sided, two unassuming travellers appeared below 

the signboard on which might be seen the fresh- 

168 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Beer 169 

painted gaudy lineaments of a couching fallow deer. 
The snow was now falling thick, and the wind had 
risen so that the air was one w T ild scurry and 
smother. Midwinter marched straight for the 
sanctum, and finding it empty but for Mrs. Peck- 
over, continued down a narrow passage, smelling 
of onions, to a little room which he entered un¬ 
bidden. There sat the landlord with horn spec¬ 
tacles on his nose, making a splice of a trout rod. 
At the sight of Midwinter he stood to attention, 
letting all his paraphernalia of twine and wax and 
tweezers slip to the floor. 

“I have brought a friend,” said Midwinter. “See 
that you entreat him well and do his biddings as if 
they were my own. For myself I want a horse, 
friend Tappet, for snow or no I must sleep in the 
next shire.” 

So as Alastair was changing into his own clothes, 
■which the landlord fetched for him from Edom, he 
saw from his window in the last faint daylight a 
square cloakless figure swing from the yard at a 
canter and turn south with the gale behind it. 

The young man had now' secured all his belong¬ 
ings, some having come with Edom by grace of 
the charcoal-burner and the rest from Squire Thick- 
nesse’s manor in the lady’s charge. As he dressed, 
his mind w 7 as busy on his old problem, and he had 
sadly to confess that though he had covered much 
country in recent days he had got little new light. 
More than once he had tried to set Midwinter’s 
mind to work on it, but, beyond his advice to come 
to Brightw'ell, he had shown no interest. Why 
should he, Alastair reflected, since his creed for¬ 
swore all common loyalties? But as he had plodded 


170 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

up and down the foothills that day his thoughts 
had been running chiefly on the lady’s husband 
whom she believed to be now with the Prince, but 
who most certainly was, or was about to be, in the 
vicinity of Brightwell. For what purpose? To 
receive a letter from Edom—a continuing corre¬ 
spondence, sent by Kyd, and charged with the most 
desperate import to the Prince—a correspondence 
which should be without delay in the Prince’s hands. 
What did Sir John Norreys in the business? Why 
did Kyd send the letters by Brightwell, which was 
not the nearest road to Lancashire? 

As he came downstairs he noticed a map hanging 
on a panel between prints of the new gardens at 
Chatsworth and the old Marquis of Granby. It 
was a Dutch thing, drawn by Timothy Hooge a 
hundred years before, and it showed all the south¬ 
ern part of the Peak country, with fragments of 
Yorkshire, Notts and Staffordshire adjoining. It 
was hard to read, for it had been pasted on a 
wooden board and then highly varnished, but the 
main roads were strongly marked in a purplish 
red. He saw the road from the north-west descend 
the valleys to Derby and so to London, the road 
from Manchester and Lancashire which the Prince’s 
army would travel. With some trouble he found 
Brightwell and to his surprise saw the road which 
passed it marked with equal vigour, as if it vied 
with the other in importance. A moment’s reflec¬ 
tion told him the reason. It was the main way from 
the West. By this road must come the levies from 
Wales if they were to join the Prince before he 
reached Derby and the flat country. By this road, 
too, must all messages come from West England 


Snowbowid at the Sleeping Deer 171 

so soon as the army left Manchester. More, the 
Hanoverian forces were gathering in Nottingham¬ 
shire. If they sought to cut in in the Prince’s rear 
they would march this way. . . . Brightwell was 
suddenly revealed as a point of strategy, a gan¬ 
glion; if treachery were abroad, here it would 
roost. 

He walked into the kitchen, for he had an odd 
fancy about the horseman whom he had seen ride 
away a little before Lady Norreys’ arrival—an in¬ 
credible suspicion which he wished to lay. A kitchen 
wench was busy at the fire, and on a settle a stable¬ 
man sat drinking beer while a second stamped the 
snow from his boots at the back door. The ap¬ 
pearance of a dapper gentleman in buckled shoes 
and a well-powdered wig so startled the beer- 
drinker that he spilled half his mug on the floor. 
Alastair ordered fresh supplies for all three and 
drank his on the seat beside the others. Had they 
been in the yard all afternoon? They had, and 
had prophesied snow since before breakfast, though 
Master wouldn’t have it so and had sent the wag¬ 
gons to Marlock, where they would be storm- 
stayed. . . . Yes. A rider had come down the 
valley and had put up his horse for the better part 
of an hour. He had been indoors most of the 
time—couldn’t say why. A tall fellow, Bill said. 
No, not very powerful—lean shoulders—pale face 
—big nose. Young, too—Tom reckoned not more 
than twenty-five. . . . Alastair left them with an 
easier mind, for the worst of his suspicions had been 
disproved. The back he had seen from the ridge- 
top posting up the dale had had a disquieting resem¬ 
blance to Kyd’s. 


172 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

In the parlour he found Mr Johnson stretching 
his great bulk before a leaping fire and expanding 
in the warmth of it. The windows had not been 
shuttered, so the wild night was in visible contrast 
to the snug hearth. A small girl of five or six 
years, the landlady’s child, had strayed into the 
room, and, fascinated by a strange gentleman, had 
remained to talk. She now sat on one of Johnson’s 
bony knees, while he told her a fairy tale in a por¬ 
tentous hollow voice. He told of a dragon, a vir¬ 
tuous dragon in reality a prince, who lived in a 
Derbyshire cave, and of how the little girl stumbled 
on the cave, found the dragon, realised his true 
character, and lived with him for a year and a day, 
which was the prescribed magical time if he were 
to be a prince again. He was just describing the 
tiny bed she had in the rock opposite the dragon’s 
lair, which lair was like a dry mill-pond, and the 
child was punctuating the narrative with squeals of 
excitement, when Alastair entered. Thereupon the 
narrator became self-conscious, the story hastened 
to a lame conclusion, and the small girl climbed 
from his knee and with many backward glances 
sidled out of the room. 

“You find me childishly employed, sir,” said 
Johnson, “but I dearly love a little miss and I think 
my company has charms for them. I rejoiced to 
hear from the Scotch serving-man, who by the way 
is a worthy fellow, that you were expected to meet 
us at this place. We are fortunate in winning here 
thus early, for presently the snow will so conglobu- 
late that the road will be impossible for coach and 
horses. . . . You have not yet dined, sir? No 
more have I or the Scotchman, and my lady has 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 173 

retired to her chamber. Our hostess promised that 
the meal should not be long delayed, and I have 
bidden the Scotchman to share it, for though his 
condition is humble he has becoming manners and 
a just mind. I do not defend the sitting down of 
servants and masters as a quotidian occurrence, but 
customs abate their rigidity on a journey.” 

To Johnson’s delight a maid entered at that mo¬ 
ment for the purpose of laying the table. She lit a 
half-dozen of candles, and closed and barred the 
heavy shutters so that the only evidence of the 
storm that remained was the shaking of the window 
frames, the rumbling in the chimney and the con¬ 
stant fine hissing at the back of the fire where the 
snow 7 descended. This distant reminder gave an 
edge to the delicate comfort of the place, and as 
fragrant odours were wafted from the kitchen 
through the open door Johnson’s spirits rose and 
his dull eyes brightened like children’s at the sight 
of sweets. 

“Of all the good gifts of a beneficent Providence 
to men,” he cried, “I think that none excels a well- 
appointed inn, and I call it a gift, for our fallible 
mortal nature is not capable unaided of devising so 
rare a thing. Behold me, Captain Maclean. My 
wealth is less than a crown and, unless I beg my 
way, I see not how I can return to Chastlecote. I 
am dependent upon my dear young lady for the 
expense of this journey, which she chose to com¬ 
mand. Therefore I do not feel justified in order¬ 
ing what my fancy dictates. Yet so strongly am I 
delighted by this place that I propose to spend this 
my last crown on a bowl of bishop to supplement 
the coming meal, which from its odour should be 


174 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

worthy of it. Like Ariadne in her desertion I find 
help in Bacchus.” 

“Nay, sir, I am the host,” said Alastair. “Last 
night I slept by a tinkler’s fire and dined off a 
tinkler’s stew. To-night we shall have the best the 
house affords. The food, I take it, is at the 
discretion of the landlady, but the wine shall be at 
yours.” 

“Oh, brave we!” cried Johnson. “Let us have 
in the landlord forthwith, for, Captain Maclean, 
sir, I would be indeed a churl if I scrupled to assent 
to your good fellowship.” 

He rang the bell violently and, when the land¬ 
lord was fetched, entered upon a learned disquisition 
on wines, with the well-thumbed cellar-book of the 
inn as his text. “Claret we shall not drink, though 
our host recommends his binns and it is the fa¬ 
vourite drink of gentlemen in your country, sir. In 
winter weather it is too thin, and, even when well 
warmed, too cold. Nay, at its best it is but a liquor 
for boys.” 

“And for men?” Alastair asked. 

“For men port, and for heroes brandy.” 

“Then brandy be it.” 

“Nay, sir,” he said solemnly. “Brandy on the 
unheroic, such as I confess myself to be, produces 
too soon and certainly the effect of drunkenness. 
Drunkenness I love not, for I am a man accustomed 
to self-examination, and I am conscious when I am 
drunk, and that consciousness is painful. Others 
know not when they are drunk or sober. I know 
a man, a very worthy bookseller, who is so habitu¬ 
ally and equally drunk that even his intimates can¬ 
not perceive that he is more sober at one time than 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 175 

another. Besides, my dear lady may summon us 
to a hand at cartes or to drink tea with her.” 

Eventually he ordered a bottle of port, one of 
old Madeira and one of brown sherry, that he might 
try all three before deciding by which he should 
abide. Presently Edom was summoned, and on his 
heels came dinner. It proved to be an excellent 
meal to which Mr Johnson applied himself with a 
serious resolution. There was thick hare soup, with 
all the woods and pastures in its fragrance, and a 
big dressed pike, caught that morning in the inn 
stewpond. This the two Scots did not touch, but 
Mr Johnson ate of it largely, using his fingers, be¬ 
cause, as he said, he was short-sighted and afraid 
of bones. Then came roast hill mutton, which he 
highly commended. “Yesterday,” he declared, “we 
also dined upon mutton—mutton ill-fed, ill-killed, 
ill-kept and ill-dressed. This is as nutty as veni¬ 
son.” But he reserved his highest commendations 
for a veal pie, made with plums, which he averred 
was his favourite delicacy. With the cheese and 
wheaten cakes which followed he sampled the three 
bottles and decided for the port. Alastair and 
Edom were by comparison spare eaters, and had 
watched with admiration the gallant trencher-work 
of their companion. For liquor they drank a light 
rum punch of Alastair’s compounding, while Mr 
Johnson consumed, in addition to divers glasses of 
sherry and Madeira, two bottles of rich dark port, 
dropping a lump of sugar into each glass and stir¬ 
ring it with the butt of a fork. 

And all the while he talked, wisely, shrewdly, 
truculently, and with a gusto comparable to that 
which he displayed in the business of eating. 


176 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

“You slept hard last night?” he asked of Alastair. 
“How came you here?” 

“On foot. For ten days I have been in an older 
world with a man who is a kind of king there.” He 
spoke for a little of Midwinter, but Johnson was 
unimpressed. 

“I think I have heard these boasts before, sir. 
When a man decries civility and exalts barbarism, 
it is because he is ill fitted to excel in good society. 
So when one praises rusticity it is because he is de¬ 
nied the joys of town. A man may be tired of the 
country, but when he is tired of London he is tired 
of life.” 

“Yet the taste can be defended,” said Alastair. 
“A lover of natural beauty will be impatient of too 
long a sojourn in town, and if he would indulge 
his fancy he must leave the highway.” 

Mr Johnson raised his head and puffed out his 
cheeks. 

“No, sir, I do not assent to this fashionable cant 
of natural beauty, nor will I rave like a green girl 
over scenery. One part of the earth is very much 
as another to me, provided it support life. The 
most beautiful garden is that which produces most 
fruits, and the fairest stream that which is fullest 
of fish. As for mountains-” 

The food and the wine had flushed Mr Johnson’s 
face, and his uncouth gestures had become more 
violent. Now with a wheel of his right hand he 
swept two glasses to the floor and narrowly missed 
Edom’s head. 

“Mountains!” he cried, “I deny any grandeur in 
the spectacle. There is more emotion for me in a 



Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 177 

furlong of Cheapside than in the contemplation of 
mere elevated bodies.” 

Edom, with an eye on the port, was whispering 
to Alastair that they would soon be contemplating 
another elevated body, when there came a knocking 
and the landlady entered. 

“Her ladyship’s services to you, sirs,” she an¬ 
nounced, “and she expects Mr Johnson to wait 
upon her after the next half-hour, and she begs 
him to bring also the gentleman recently arrived 
with whom she believes she has the honour of an 
acquaintance.” The landlady, having got the mes¬ 
sage by heart, delivered it with the speed and 
monotony of a bell-man. Mr Johnson rose to his 
feet and bowed. 

“Our service to my lady,” he said, “and we will 
obey her commands. “Our service, mark you,” and 
he inclined towards Alastair. The summons seemed 
to have turned his thoughts from wine, for he re¬ 
fused the bottle when it was passed to him. 

“The dear child is refreshed, it would seem,” he 
said. “She found this morning’s journey irksome, 
for she has little patience. Reading she cannot 
abide, and besides the light was poor.” 

“Is madam possessed of many accomplishments?” 
Alastair asked, because it was clear that the other 
expected him to speak on the subject. 

“Why, no, sir. It is not right for a gentlewoman 
to be trained like a performing ape. Adventitious 
accomplishments may be possessed by any rank, but 
one can always distinguish the born gentlewoman.” 

Then he repented. 

“But I would not have you think that she is of 


178 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

dull wits. Nay, , she is the most qualitied lady I 
have ever seen. She has an admirable quick mind 
which she puts honestly to yours. I have had rare 
discussions with her. Reflect, sir; she has lived 
always in the broad sunshine of life, and has had 
no spur to form her wits save her own fancy. A 
good mind in such a one is a greater credit than 
with those who are witty for a livelihood. ’Twill 
serve her well in matrimony, for no woman is the 
worse for sense and knowledge. For the present, 
being not three weeks married, her mind is in a 
happy confusion.” 

He smiled tenderly as he spoke, like a father 
speaking of a child. 

“She is happy, I think,” he said, and repeated 
the phrase three times. “You have seen her,” he 
turned to Alastair. “You can confirm my belief 
that she is happy?” 

“She is most deeply in love,” was the reply. 

“And transmutes it into happiness,” said John¬ 
son, and repeated with a rolling voice some lines 
of poetry, beating time with his hand, 

“Love various minds does variously inspire; 

It stirs in gentle bosoms gentle fire 
Like that of incense on the altar laid.” 

“There,” said he, “Dryden drew from a profundity 
which Pope could not reach. But it is time for us 
to be waiting on my lady.” He hoisted himself 
from his chair, brushed the crumbs from his waist¬ 
coat, straightened his rusty cravat, and opened the 
door with a bow to the others. He was in the best 
of spirits. 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 179 

The landlady was waiting to show the two up¬ 
stairs, Edom having meantime retired to smoke a 
pipe in the bar. As they ascended, the gale was 
still pounding on the roof and an unshuttered lat¬ 
tice showed a thick drift of snow on the outer sill, 
but over the tumult came the echo of a clear voice 
singing. To Alastair’s surprise it was a song he 
knew, the very song that Midwinter had played two 
nights before. “Diana and her darling crew” sang 
the voice, and as the door opened it was Diana her¬ 
self that seemed to the young man to be walking 
to meet him. Vera incessu patuit Dea. 

Mrs. Peckover had dressed her hair, which the 
coach journey had disarranged, but to Alastair’s eye 
her air was childlike, as contrasted with the hooped 
and furbelowed ladies of the French court. Her 
skirts were straight and unmodish, so that her 
limbs moved freely, and the slim young neck was 
encircled with her only jewel—a string of pearls. 
The homely inn chamber, which till a few hours 
before had been but the Brown Room, was now to 
him a hall in a palace, a glade in the greenwood, 
or wherever else walk princesses and nymphs. 

She gave him her hand and then dropped into a 
chair, looking at him earnestly from under her long 
eyelashes. 

“I thought that b-by this time you would be in 
L-Lancashire, Captain Maclean.” 

“So also did I.” And he told her the story of 
Gypsy Ben and his morning’s hunt. “There is busi¬ 
ness I have had news of in these parts, a riddle I 
must unravel before I can ride north with a quiet 
mind. The enemy musters in Nottinghamshire, 
and I must carry word of his dispositions.” 


180 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

Her brown eyes had kindled. “Ben is a rogue 
then! By Heaven, sir, I will have him stript and 
whipt from Thames to Severn. Never fear but 
my vengeance shall reach him. Oh, I am heartily 
glad to know the truth, for though I have used him 
much I have had my misgivings. He carried letters 
for me to my dear Sir John.” She stopped sud¬ 
denly. “That is why the replies are delayed. Oh, 
the faithless scoundrel! I can love a foe but I do 
abhor all traitors. . . . Do you say the enemy 
musters in Nottingham?” The anger in her voice 
had been replaced by eagerness at this new thought. 

“So it is reported, and, as I read it, he may march 
by this very road if he hopes to take the Prince’s 
flank. You at Brightwell may have the war in your 
garden.” 

Her eyes glistened. “If only Sir John were here! 
There is the chance of a famous exploit. You are 
a soldier, sir. Show me, for I love the gossip of 
war.” 

On the hearthstone with a charred stick he drew 
roughly the two roads from the north. “Here or 
hereabouts will lie the decision,” he said. “Cum¬ 
berland cannot suffer the Prince to approach nearer 
London without a battle. If you hear of us south 
of Derby undefeated, then you may know, my lady, 
that honesty has won.” 

She cried out, twining her hands. 

“Tell me more, sir. I had thought to pass the 
evening playing Pope Joan with my Puffin, but you 
are here to teach me a better pastime. Instruct 
me, for I am desperate ignorant.” 

Alastair repeated once again his creed in which 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 181 

during the past days he had come the more firmly 
to believe. There must be a victory in England, 
but in the then condition of Wales and the West a 
very little victory would suffice to turn the scale. 
The danger lay in doubting counsels in the Prince’s 
own circle. Boldness, and still boldness, was the 
only wisdom. To be cautious was to be rash; to 
creep soberly south with a careful eye to communi¬ 
cations was to run a deadly peril; to cut loose and 
march incontinent for London was safe and pru¬ 
dent. “Therefore I must get quickly to the Prince’s 
side,” he said, “for he has many doubting Thomases 
around him, and few with experience of war.” 

“He has my Sir John,” she said proudly. “Sir 
John is young, and has not seen such service as you, 
but he is of the same bold spirit. I know his views, 
for he has told them me, and they are yours.” 

“There are too many half-hearted, and there is 
also rank treason about. Your Gypsy Ben is the 
type of thousands.” 

She clenched her hands and held them high. 
“How I 1-loathe it! Oh, if I thought I could be¬ 
tray the Cause I should hang myself. If I thought 
that one I loved could be a traitor I should d-die.” 
There was such emotion in her voice that the echo 
of it alarmed her and she changed her tone. 

“Puffin,” she cried, “are you honest on our side? 
I have sometimes doubted you.” 

“Madam,” Mr Johnson replied in the same ban¬ 
tering voice, “I can promise that at any rate I will 
not betray you. Being neither soldier nor states¬ 
man, I am not yet called to play an overt part in 
the quarrel, but I am a Prince’s man inasmuch as I 


182 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

believe in the divine origin of the Christian state 
and therefore in the divine right of monarchs to 
govern. I am no grey rat from Hanover.” 

“Yet,” she said, with a chiding finger, “I have 
heard you say that a Tory was a creature generated 
between a non-juring parson and one’s grand¬ 
mother.” 

“Nay, my dear lady,” he cried, “such heresy was 
never mine. I only quoted it as a pernicious opinion 
of another, and I quoted too my answer that ‘the 
Devil, as the first foe to constituted authority, was 
the first Whig.’ ” 

At this juncture Mrs Peckover appeared with a 
kettle of boiling water and the rest of the equip¬ 
ment of tea, which the girl dispensed out of the 
coarse inn earthenware and sweetened with the 
coarse sugar which Mr Johnson had used for his 
port. While the latter drank his dish noisily, she 
looked curiously at Alastair. 

“You are no politician, Captain Maclean, and 
doubtless have no concern with the arguments with 
which our gentlemen soothe their consciences. You 
do not seek wealth or power—of that I am certain. 
What are the bonds that join you to the Prince?” 

“I am a plain soldier,” he said, “and but fulfil 
my orders.” 

“Nay, but you do not answer me. You do more 
than obey your orders; you are an enthusiast, as 
Sir John is—as I am—as that dull Puffin is not. I 
am curious to know the reason of your faith.” 

Alastair, looking into the fire, found himself con¬ 
strained to reply. 

“I am of the old religion,” he said, “and loyalty 
to my king is one of its articles.” 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 183 

She nodded. “I am a daughter of another 
church, which has also that teaching.” 

“Also I am of the Highlands, and I love the 
ancient ways. My clan has fought for them and 
lost, and it is in my blood to fight still and risk the 
losing.” 

Her eyes encouraged him, and he found himself 
telling the tale of Clan Gillian—the centuries-long 
feud with Clan Diarmaid, the shrinking of its lands 
in Mull and Morvern, the forays with Montrose 
and Dundee, the sounding record of its sons in the 
wars of Europe. He told of the old tower of 
Glentarnit, with the loch lapping about it, and his 
father who had no other child but him; of the 
dreams of his youth in the hot heather; of that 
little ragged clan which looked to him as leader and 
provider; and into his voice there came the pathos 
and passion of long memories. 

“I fight for that,” he said; “for the old things.” 

It seemed that he had touched her. Her eyes 
were misty and with a child’s gesture she laid a 
hand on his sleeve and stroked it. The spell which 
had fallen on them was broken by Mr Johnson. 

“I conceive,” he said, “that the power of the 
Scottish chief is no less than Homeric, and his po¬ 
sition more desirable than that of any grandee in 
England. He may be poor, but he has high duties 
and exacts a fine reverence. When I was a child 
my father put into my hands Martin’s book on the 
Western Isles, and ever since I have desired to 
visit them and behold the patriarchal life with my 
own eyes.” 

“Your Highlanders are good soldiers?” she 
asked. 


184 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

“They are the spear-point of the Prince’s 
strength,” said Alastair. 

“It is a strange time,” said Johnson, “which sees 
enlisted on the same side many superfine gentlemen 
of France, certain sophisticated politicians of Eng¬ 
land, and these simple, brave, ignorant clansmen.” 

“There is one bond which unites them all,” she 
cried with enthusiasm, “which places my Sir John 
and the humblest Scotch peasant on an equality. 
They have the honesty to see their duty and the 
courage to follow it. What can stand against 
loyalty? It is the faith that moves mountains.” 

“Amen, my dear lady,” said Johnson, and Alas¬ 
tair with a sudden impulse seized her hand and 
carried it to his lips. 

• • • • • • • 

The next morning dawned as silent as midnight. 
The wind had died, the snowfall had ceased, and 
the world lay choked, six-foot drifts in the road, 
twenty-foot in the dells, and, with it all, patches of 
hill-top as bare as a man’s hand. The shepherds 
were out with the first light digging sheep from the 
wreaths, and the cows after milking never left the 
byres. No traveller appeared on the road, for a 
coach was a manifest impossibility, and a horse lit¬ 
tle better. Alastair and Johnson breakfasted at 
leisure, and presently the elder of the Weston serv¬ 
ants brought word of the condition of the highway. 
This was borne by Mrs Peckover to her mistress, 
who summoned Mr Johnson to her to discuss the 
situation. The landlord was unhopeful. Unless 
he could put six horses to it the coach would not get 
to Brightwell, though a squad of men went ahead 
to clear the drifts. The extra four horses he could 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 185 

not provide since his wagons were all at Marlock 
and the two riding horses were useless for coach 
work. The best plan would be to send to Bright- 
well for the requisite horses, and this should be 
done later in the day, if no further snow fell. The 
lady pouted, but settled herself comfortably at 
cartes with her maid. 

She inquired after Alastair’s plans, and was told 
that he would make a shift to travel, since his errand 
brooked no delay. Thereafter he found the land¬ 
lord and drew him aside. “You were bidden by 
our friend to take orders from me,” he said. “I 
have but the one. I stay on here, but you will let 
it be known that I have gone—this day after noon. 
You will give me a retired room with a key, forbid 
it to chambermaids, serve me with your own hand, 
and show me some way of private entry. It is im¬ 
portant that I be thought to have left the country¬ 
side.” 

The man did as he was told and Alastair spent 
the morning with Mr Johnson, who suffered from 
a grievous melancholy after the exhilaration of the 
night before. At first he had turned the pages of 
the only book in the inn, an ancient devotional 
work entitled “A Shove for a Heavy-sterned Chris¬ 
tian.” But presently he flung it from him and sat 
sidelong in a chair with his shoulders humped, his 
eye dull and languid, and his left leg twitching like 
a man with the palsy. His voice was sharp-pitched, 
as if it came from a body in pain. 

“I am subject to such fits,” he told Alastair. 
“They come when my mind is unemployed and 
when I have pampered my body with over-rich 
food. Now I suffer from both causes. Nay, sir, 


186 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

do not commiserate me. Each of us must live his 
life on the terms on which it is given him. Others 
have some perpetual weakness of mind or some 
agonising pain. I have these black moods when I 
see only the littleness of life and the terrors of 
death.” 

Lady Norreys had written a letter to her hus¬ 
band’s great-uncle at Brightwell, and armed with it 
Alastair set out a little before midday. He had 
dressed himself in the frieze and leather with which 
Midwinter had provided him, for it was as good 
a garb as a kilt for winter snows. The direction 
was simple. He had but to follow the valley, for 
Brightwell was at its head, before the road began 
to climb to the watershed. 

To one who had shot hinds on steeper hills in 
wilder winters the journey was child’s play. He 
made his road by the barer ridges, and circumvented 
the hollows or crossed them where matted furze or 
hazel made a foundation. He found that the higher 
he moved up the vale the less deep became the fall, 
and the shallower the wreaths, as if the force of 
the wind had been abated by the loftier mountains. 
Brightwell lay in a circle of woods on whose dark¬ 
ness the snow had left only a powder; before it ran 
the upper streams of a little river; behind it the 
dale became a ravine and high round-shouldered 
hills crowded in on it. 

A thin column of smoke rose from a chimney 
into the bitter windless noon, so the place was in¬ 
habited. But the gates of the main entrance were 
shut—massive gates flanked by stone pillars bear¬ 
ing a cognisance of three mullets on a chief—and 
the snow of the avenue was a virgin sheet of white. 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Beer 187 

Alastair entered the park by a gap in the wall, 
crossed the snow-filled river, and came by way of 
a hornbeam avenue to the back parts of the house. 
There he found signs of humanity. The courtyard 
was trampled into slush, and tracks led out from it 
to the woody hills. But nevertheless an air of death 
sat on the place, as if this life it bore witness to was 
only a sudden start in a long slumber. With his 
spirits heavily depressed he made his way to what 
seemed to be the door, and entered a lesser court¬ 
yard, where he was at once attacked by two noisy 
dogs. 

As he drove them off, half thankful for their 
cheerful violence, an old man, dressed in black like 
a butler, appeared. He had a thin peevish face, 
and eyes that squinted so terribly that it was im¬ 
possible to guess the direction of his gaze. He 
received the letter without a word and disappeared. 
After a considerable lapse of time he returned and 
bade Alastair follow him through a labyrinth of 
passages, till they reached a high old panelled hall, 
darkened by lozenged heraldic windows, and most 
feebly warmed by a little fire of damp faggots. 
There he was left alone a second time, while he had 
leisure to observe the immense dusty groining and 
the antlers and horns, black as bog oak, on the 
walls. Then suddenly a woman stood before him. 

She was tall as a grenadier and beaked like a 
falcon, and to defend her against the morning cold 
she wore what seemed to be a military coat and a 
turban. Her voice was surprisingly deep and large. 

“You are the messenger from the Sleeping Deer? 
My lady Norreys lies there storm-stayed, because 
of the snow and asks for horses? You travelled 


188 Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 

that road yourself. Would six horses bring a coach 
through?” 

Alastair, coarsening his accent as best he could, 
replied that with care six horses could get a coach 
to Brightwell. 

“Then return at once and say that the horses 
will be there an hour before sunset.” 

A new voice joined in, which came from an older 
woman, fat as the other was lean, who had waddled 
to her side. 

“But, sister, bethink you we have not the ani¬ 
mals.” 

The first speaker turned fiercely. “The animals 
must and shall be found. We cannot have our new 
cousin moping in a public hostel on her first visit to 
us. For shame, Caroline.” 

“Back with you,” she turned to Alastair. “Ben- 
net will give you a glass of ale, but see you do not 
dally over it.” 

The buttery ale was not such as to invite dalliance, 
and like the whole place smacked either of narrow 
means or narrow souls. Even the kitchen, of which 
he had a glimpse, was comfortless. To warm his 
blood Alastair trotted across the park, and as he 
ran with his head low almost butted into a horseman 
who was riding on one of the paths that converged 
on the back courtyard. He pulled himself up in 
time, warned by the rider’s cry, and saw pass him a 
gentleman in a heavy fawn riding-coat, whose hat 
was pulled down over his brows and showed little 
of his face. Two sharp eyes flashed on him and 
then lifted, and a sharp nose, red with the weather, 
projected over the high coat collar. 

Alastair stared after him and reached certain con- 


Snowbound at the Sleeping Deer 189 

elusions. That was the nose he had seen by the 
light of Edom’s lantern the night he spent with Kyd 
at the inn. That was the back he had observed 
yesterday afternoon riding away from the Sleeping 
Deer. Thirdly and most important—and though 
his evidence was scanty he had no doubt on the 
matter—the gentleman was Sir John Norreys. My 
lady when she reached Brightwell would find her 
husband. 


Chapter XI 


NIGHT AT THE SAME: TWO VISITORS 

TpOUR nights later Alastair was in his little bed- 
•L 1 room at the Sleeping Deer, dressing by the 
light of two home-made candles. He had been taken 
to this inn by Midwinter because of the honesty of 
the landlord, who lived only for trout-fishing, and 
the facilities of the rambling old house for a discreet 
retirement. He was given an attic at the back where 
the dwelling part of the building merged in a disused 
watermill and granary. There was an entrance to it 
from the first floor, by way of a store cupboard; 
another from the kitchen regions, and still a third 
from the mill-house. Accordingly he was able to 
enter unobtrusively at any hour of the day or night, 
and had the further advantage that the mill-house 
road led directly to a covert of elders and so to the 
hillside. His meals, when he was at home to par¬ 
take of them, were brought him by the landlord 
himself, who also would ascend to smoke his pipe of 
an evening, and discuss the habits of Derbyshire 
trout as compared with their northern kin. 

Clad in his leather and frieze he had spent the 
days among the valleys and along the great road. 
The snow had not melted, but it was bound in the 
stricture of a mild frost, and all day a winter sun 
shone on the soft white curves of the hills. It was 
weather to kindle the blood and lift the heart, and 
Alastair found his journeys pleasant enough, though 

190 


Night at the Same: Two Visitors 191 

so far fruitless. He had haunted Brightwell like a 
cattle-lifting Macgregor looking down on a Lennox 
byre, and since few could teach him woodcraft in 
hilly places, he had easily evaded the race of keepers 
and foresters. Twice he had met the man whom he 
took to be Sir John Norreys. The first time he had 
watched him from cover, setting out on horseback 
by a track which ran from Brightwell to Dovedale— 
a man in a furious hurry, with a twitching bridle- 
hand and a nervous eye. The second time he met 
him full face on the high road, and seemed to be 
recognised. Sir John half pulled up, thought better 
of it, and rode on with one glance behind him. He 
had made certain inquiries in the neighbourhood and 
learned that the tall gentleman in the fawn coat w T as 
a newcomer and beyond doubt sojourned in Bright- 
well: but he had a notion that in that vast decaying 
pile a man might lodge unbeknown to the other 
dwellers. He was curious to discover if Sir John 
had yet greeted his lady. 

Four days ago she had departed in her coach, 
fresh horsed from Brightwell, attended by Mr John¬ 
son and Edom Lowrie. Since then he had seen no 
sign of the party. The old house had swallowed 
them up, and neither taking the air in the park nor 
riding on the highway had any one of them emerged 
to the outer world. The mystery of the place grew 
upon him, till he came to look on the bleak house 
lying in the sparkling amphitheatre of hill as the 
enchanted castle of a fairy tale. It held a princess 
and it held a secret —the secret, he was convinced, 
most vital to his Prince’s cause. He need not scour 
the country; in that one dwelling he could read the 
riddle. 


192 Night at the Same: Two Visitors 

On this, the fourth night of his reconnaissance, he 
returned to the inn assured that the first part of his 
task was over. He must find some way of entering 
Brightwell and growing familiar with the household, 
and his head was busy with plans as he slipped into 
the mill-house in the early dark, and climbed the 
dusty wooden ladder to the loft which gave on his 
attic. In his bedroom stood the landlord. 

“I heard ye come in by the mill,” he said, “and 
I’m here because I’ve news ye may like to hear. 
There’s a famous gentleman coming here to-night. 
Ye’ll have heard o’ General Oglethorpe, him that’s 
been fighting in Ameriky? He’s coming to his sup¬ 
per, no less. His regiment is lying down the vale, 
and an officer rides here this afternoon and says the 
General will be to sup sharp at seven o’clock. After 
that he’s to meet a friend here and wants to be left 
quiet. He needs no bed, for he’s riding back to his 
camp when he’s done his business. Now, what 
dy’e make of that, sir?” 

“Where does he sup?” Alastair asked. 

“In the Brown Room, the one my lady had.” 

When he arrives pray give him a message from 
me. Say that one who had the happiness to oblige 
him a week back is in the house, and will do himself 
the honour of waiting on him if he will name the 
hour. Is that clear? Now fetch me some hot 
water, for I must make a toilet.” 

He got rid of his soaked clothes and assumed his 
old habit—chocolate coat and green velvet waist¬ 
coat, stockings and buckled shoes, and a tie-wig new 
dressed by the landlord. The exposure of the past 
days had darkened his skin, and it was a hard-bitten 
face that looked back at him from the cracked mir- 


Night at the Same: Two Visitors 193 

ror. Before completing his toilet he lay down on 
the truckle bed and stared at the ceiling. Ogle¬ 
thorpe was friendly to him, and might give him news 
of moment—he had the name himself of a Jacobite 
or at any rate of a lukewarm Hanoverian. But the 
man the General was to meet? He had no doubt it 
was Sir John and he chuckled at the chance which 
Fortune had offered him. 

As he lay his thoughts roamed wide but always 
returned to one centre, the Brown Room at the inn. 
But it was not Oglethorpe or Sir John that he saw 
there, but a slim girl with eyes now ardent, now 
laughing, now misty, and a voice that stammered 
adorably and sang “Diana” like a linnet. Some¬ 
times he saw Brightwell and its chilly hall, but he 
saw no human personage other than the girl, a little 
forlorn and lost now, but still happy and dreaming. 
. . . He pulled himself up sharply. For the first 
time in his life a woman’s face was filling the eye of 
his mind—he, the scorner of trivialities whose whole 
being was dedicate to a manly ambition! He felt 
irritated and a little ashamed, and began laboriously 
to examine himself to prove his resolution. Now 
in the very crisis of his fate he could least afford a 
whimsy. 

The landlord disturbed him when he had become 
drowsy. 

“The gentleman is here—General Oglethorpe. I 
give him your message, and he says, pleasant-like, 
‘I can guess who the gentleman is. Tell him that 
my gratitude is not exhausted and that I will be 
happy if he will add to his obligations by giving me 
his company at supper.’ Ye’d better hasten, sir, 
for supper is being dished up.” 


194 Night at the Same: Two Visitors 

Alastair followed the landlord through the cob¬ 
webby back regions of the store-room and out to the 
gallery at the head of the stairs whence the Brown 
Room opened. He noticed that the dusky corridor 
was brightly lit just opposite the room door because 
of the lamps in the hall below which shone up a side 
passage. This glow also revealed in full detail the 
map which he had studied on his first night there. 
As he glanced at it, the two great roads from the 
north seemed to stand out like blood, and Bright- 
well, a blood-red name, to be the toll-house to shut 
or open them. 

The Brown Room was bright with candles and 
firelight, and warming his back at the hearth stood 
a tall man in military undress. He was of a strong 
harsh aquiline cast of countenance; his skin was 
somewhat sallow from the hot countries he had 
dwelt in, but he carried his forty-odd years lightly, 
and, to Alastair’s soldier eye, would be a serious 
antagonist with whatever weapon of hand or brain. 
His face relaxed at the sight of the young man and 
he held out his hand. 

“I am overjoyed to see you again, Mr Maclean. 
. . . Nay, I never forget a name or a face ... I 
do not ask your business here, nor will I permit you 
to ask mine, save in so far as all the world knows it. 
I have my regiment billeted at Marlock, and am on 
my way across England to Hull, there to join Gen¬ 
eral Wade. In that there is no secret, for every old 
woman on Trentside proclaims it. . . . Let us 
fall to, sir, for I am plaguily hungry with the frosty 
air, and this house has a name for cookery.” 

General Oglethorpe proved himself a trencherman 
of the calibre of Mr Samuel Johnson; that is to say, 


Night at the Same: Two Visitors 195 

he ate heartily of everything—beefsteak pie, roast 
sirloin, sheep's tongues, cranberry tarts and a Lon¬ 
don bag-pudding—and drank a bottle of claret, a 
quart of ale, and the better part of a bottle of 
Madeira. But unlike Mr Johnson he did not become 
garrulous, nor did the iron restraint of his demea¬ 
nour relax. The board was cleared and he pro¬ 
ceeded to brew a dish of punch, mixing the several 
ingredients of limes, rum, white sugar and hot water 
with the meticulosity of an alchemist. Then hz pro¬ 
duced from a flat silver box which he carried in his 
waistcoat pocket a number of thin brown sticks, 
which he offered to his companion. 

“Will you try my cigarros, sir? It is a habit 
which I contracted in Georgia, and I find them 
mighty comforting to a campaigner. ... You 
journey northward, Mr Maclean, but you make slow 
progress.” He smiled with a quizzical kindliness 
which stripped the martinet’s cloak from him and 
left only benevolence. 

Alastair smiled back. “I journey slowly for I 
have had mischances. But I must mend my pace, 
for I am still far from my home, and my time of 
leave passes quick.” 

“From the French King’s service?” 

“From the French King’s service.” 

“You are aware that there are certain rumours of 
war in this land?” 

“I heard gossip to that effect in Paris.” 

General Oglethorpe laughed. “I can guess where 
your sympathies lie, Mr Maclean. Your name, your 
birthplace and your profession are signposts to 
them.” 

“I too have heard tales from which I could hazard 


196 Night at the Same: Two Visitors 

a guess at General Oglethorpe’s sentiments,” said 
Alastair. 

“Tut, tut, sir. I bear His Majesty’s commission 
and am embarked in His Majesty’s service.” 

“I could name some in the same case—and with 
the same sympathies.” 

The other’s brows had descended and he was 
staring in the fire like a perplexed bird of prey. 

“I do not altogether deny it. I have been a 
Member of Parliament for years and I have never 
concealed my views on politics, sir. I regret that 
England ever lost her natural and rightful line of 
kings. I have no love for Ministers with their 
courting of this neighbour, and baiting of that, and 
bleeding the commonalty of England for their crazy 
foreign wars. I detest and abhor the cabal of 
greedy bloodsuckers that call themselves Whigs. I 
am a Tory, sir, I serve the ancient constitution of 
this realm, I love and reverence its Church, and I 
hold this mongering of novelties an invention of the 
Devil. But—and it is a potent but —I cannot wish 
that this attempt of the Chevalier should succeed. 
I must with all my soul hope that it fail and do my 
best to ensure that failure.” 

“Your conclusion scarcely accords with your 
premises, sir.” 

“More than may at first sight appear. What 
has a young man bred abroad in a vapid Court, 
and suckled into Papistry, to say to the people of 
England?” 

“His church is the same as mine, sir. But he 
is no bigot, and has sworn to grant to all beliefs 
that full tolerance which England has denied to 
his.” 


Night at the Same: Two Visitors 197 

“It is not enough. He is the young gallant, a 
figure from an old chivalrous world. Oh, I do not 
deny his attraction; I do not doubt that he can 
charm men’s hearts. But, sir, there is a new temper 
in the land. You have heard of the people they 
call Methodists—humble folk, humble servants of 
Almighty God, who carry the Gospel to dark places 
at the expense of revilings and buffetings and perse¬ 
cutions. I have had them with me in Georgia, and 
they fight like Cromwell’s Ironsides, they are tender 
and merciful and brave, and they preach a hope for 
the vilest. With them is the key of the new Eng¬ 
land, for they bring healing to the souls of the 
people. . . . What can your fairy Prince say to the 
poor and the hungry?” 

General Oglethorpe’s eye was lit with a fervour 
which softened the rigour of his face into something 
infinitely gentle. Alastair had no words to answer 
so strange a plea. 

“But—but King George is no more of that way 
of thinking than my Prince,” he stammered. 

The other nodded. “I am not arguing on behalf 
of his present Majesty. I plead for the English 
people and I want no change, least of all the violent 
change of revolution, unless it be to their benefit. 
A mere transfer of monarchs will do small good to 
them, and it will bring needless suffering to the 
innocent. Therefore, I, James Oglethorpe, who am 
reputed a Jacobite, will do my utmost to nip this 
rising in the bud and confine it to the barbarous 
parts of the North. In the service of my country 
I will pretermit no effort to keep England neutral 
in the quarrel, for it is in England’s participation 
that the danger lies.” 


198 Night at the Same: Two Visitors 

Alastair deemed it wise not to answer, but, as he 
regarded this man who was now his declared oppo¬ 
nent, he felt the satisfaction of a fighter who faces 
an honourable foe. Here was one whose hand he 
could clasp before he crossed swords. 

“I am no Englishman,” he said, “and therefore 
I am remote from this particular controversy.” 

The other’s eye burned with a fanatic’s heat. “I 
will fight like a tiger for England against all who 
would do her hurt. God forgive them, but there 
are many on my side whose hearts are like rotten 
eggs. , They are carrion crows who flock wherever 
there is blood and pain. In times of civil strife, sir, 
the base can make money. Had you travelled north 
by Chester you would have passed through a land 
of fat pastures and spreading parks and snug 
manors, and had you asked the name of the fortu¬ 
nate owner you would have been told Sir Robert 
Grosvenor. You know the name? A worthy gen¬ 
tleman and somewhat of your way of thinking. 
Now Sir Robert’s mother was an heiress and all the 
faubourgs of London between St James’ and Ken¬ 
sington village were her fortune. Whence came 
that fortune, think you, to enrich the honest knights 
of Cheshire? ’Twas the fortune of an ancient scriv¬ 
ener who bought up forfeited lands from Cromwell’s 
Government, bought cheap, and sold most profitably 
at his leisure. There are other fortunes to-day 
waiting for the skilled broker of fines and at¬ 
tainders. But to make the profit there must be a 
forfeiture, and for the forfeiture there must be first 
the treason. Therefore it is in the interest of base 
men to manufacture rebels, to encourage simple 


Night at the Same: Two Visitors 199 

folk to take blindly some irrevocable and fatal step. 
Do you follow me?” 

Alastair nodded automatically. He saw as in a 
long vista a chain of infamies and the name to them 
was Sir John Norreys. 

“The scoundrels must be in the confidence of both 
sides,” Oglethorpe went on. “With their victims 
they are honest Jacobites, but next day they are 
closeted with Mr Pelham in Whitehall. They will 
draw a poor innocent so far that he will lose his 
estate, but they will prevent his loss being of service 
to the Prince.” 

The man had risen and strode about the room, a 
formidable figure of wrath, with his jaw set sternly 
and his eyes hard. 

“Do you know my purpose, Mr Maclean? So far 
as the Almighty permits me, I will save the pigeon 
from the crow. The pigeon will be hindered from 
meddling in matters of Government, his estate will 
be saved to him, and the crow, please God, will be 
plucked. Do you commend my policy?” 

“It is the conduct of an honest gentleman, sir, 
and though I may not share your politics I would 
hope to share your friendship.” 

Oglethorpe’s face relaxed into the convivial kind¬ 
liness it had shown at supper. 

“Then two friends and honourable opponents will 
shake hands and bid farewell. You will be for bed, 
sir, and I must return presently to my regiment.” 

But as the young man left the room the General 
seemed in no hurry to call for his horse. He flung 
another log on the fire, and stood by the hearth with 
his brows knit in meditation. 


200 Night at the Same: Two Visitors 

Alastair retired to his bedroom but did not un¬ 
dress. His brain was dazzled with new light, and he 
saw all the events of the past weeks in a new and 
awful perspective. This man Norreys was the trai¬ 
tor, the agent provocateur who lured honest clod- 
poles to their doom and pocketed his commission on 
their ruin. That was what Sir Christopher Lacy had 
said at Cornbury—the man cared only for gain. But 
he must be a rogue of vast accomplishments, for he 
had deceived a proud lady, and he had won the con¬ 
fidence of a shrewd Scots lawyer. It was Kyd’s be- 
guilement that staggered him. He, a sagacious man 
of affairs, had used a traitor as an agent for the most 
precious news—news which instead of going straight 
to the Prince would be transferred to the enemy and 
used for honest men’s undoing. General Oglethorpe 
would prevent the fellow from making his foul 
profit; it was the business of Alastair Maclean to 
stamp the breath from him, to rid the Prince’s cause 
of a menace and the world of a villain. 

He mused on this strange thing, England, which 
was like a spell on sober minds. Midwinter had 
told of Old England like a lover of his mistress, and 
here was this battered traveller, this Oglethorpe, 
thrilling to the same fervour. That was something 
he had not met before. He had been trained to 
love his family and clan and the hills of his home, 
and a Prince who summed up centuries of wandering 
loyalty. But his devotion had been for the little, 
intimate things, and not for matters large and im¬ 
personal like a country or a people. He felt himself 
suddenly and in very truth a stranger and alone. 
The Prince, the chiefs, the army—they were all of 


Night at the Same: Two Visitors 201 

them strangers here. How could they ask for loy¬ 
alty from what they so little understood? 

The reflection pained him and he put it from him 
and turned to his immediate business. Kicking off his 
shoes, he tiptoed back through the store-cupboard 
and into the long corridor, at the end of which he 
saw the bright reflection from the hall lamp falling 
on the map and the Brown Room door. He 
listened, but there was no sound except a faint clat¬ 
ter from far away in the direction of the kitchen, 
where presumably the General’s servant waited on 
his master’s orders. He stole to the door of the 
Brown Room for a second, and played the eaves¬ 
dropper. Yes, there were voices within, a low voice 
speaking fast, and another replying in monosylla¬ 
bles. He had no wish to overhear them, so he crept 
back to the store-room door, where he was securely 
hid. Thence he could see all that he wanted, in the 
patch of light by the map. 

He did not wait long. The door opened, and a 
figure was illumined for one instant in profile before 
it turned to descend the stairs. It was a tall man 
in a long riding-coat which he had unbuttoned in the 
warmth of the room. He bowed his head a little as 
one does when one walks stealthily, and his lips 
were tightly pursed. But where was the sharp nose 
like a pen, and the pale complexion of Sir John? 
This man had a skin like red sandstone, a short 
blunt nose and a jovial mouth. He cast one glance 
at the map, and then went softly down the staircase. 

With a queer flutter of the heart Alastair recog¬ 
nised Mr Nicholas Kyd. 


Chapter XII 


THE HUT IN THE OAK SHAW 

r HE sinking at the heart disappeared long be¬ 
fore Alastair reached his attic, and was 
replaced by a violent heat of anger. He lit a candle, 
for the dark irked him, and sat on his bed with his 
face as scarlet as if it had been buffeted. He felt 
his temples throb and a hot dryness at the back of 
his throat. For the moment thoughts of the dire 
peril to the Cause were swallowed up in natural fury 
at a rogue. 

Blind fool that he had been! All the steps were 
now bitterly clear in his bedraggled Odyssey. At 
Cornbury Kyd had been sowing tares in my lord’s 
mind—not in partnership with the Duchess Kitty, 
of that he was assured—he did not believe that that 
vivacious lady, Whig as she might be, was a partner 
of his villainy. From the first encounter at the road¬ 
side inn the man had dogged him; perhaps that 
meeting had been premeditated. The scene at 
Flambury, the accusing mummer in Squire Thick- 
nesse’s justice-room, the well-informed warrant, Ben 
the Gypsy and his treachery—all were the doing of 
the pawky Lammermuir laird. General Oglethorpe 
would use his services but prevent his getting his 
reward; but there were others less scrupulous, and 
anyhow these services spelled death to the Prince’s 
fortunes. ... A second Grosvenor fortune would 
be achieved! No, by God, it should not, if Alastair 

Maclean were left another six months alive! 

202 


203 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

Sir John Norreys was the man’s tool, and the 
news from the West passed through him to Kingston 
and Wade, and Ligonier and Cumberland, and Mr 
Pelham in London. Mr Pelham doubtless had taken 
steps. He would arrest the levy in the West before 
it had grown dangerous; and the fines and forfei¬ 
tures of broken loyalists would go to enrich the 
Exchequer and Mr Nicholas Kyd of Greyhouses. 
. . . He had lost his dislike of Sir John. That 
huckstering baronet was only an instrument in the 
hand of a cleverer knave. 

But why was Kyd here, when he had sent Edom 
to Brightwell with the news that he was not to be 
looked for before the close of the month. He did 
not believe that Edom had lied, so either there was 
a deeper game afoot, or Kyd had changed his plans. 
He thought the latter, for even rogues were the 
sport of circumstance. Some news had reached him 
of surpassing importance and he had posted all that 
way to see Oglethorpe, who, as a former Jacobite, 
would be the more readily believed by the Govern¬ 
ment when he acted against his former friends. 

It stood to reason that Kyd would visit Bright- 
well, to see Norreys, to instruct his servant—some 
errand or other, even if he returned next day to the 
South. Brightwell was the Philippi of the campaign, 
the place of meetings, or why had Norreys been sent 
there? Even now the laird’s ruddy visage and the 
baronet’s lean jaw might be close together in some 
damnable machination. . . . And the lady, the 
poor lady. At the thought of her Alastair clenched 
his hands, and shut his eyes tight to kill the pain in 
them. That poor nymph, that dainty innocence in 
such a den of satyrs! 


204 The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

And then, oddly enough, his mood changed to a 
happier one as the picture of Claudia Norreys 
brightened on the screen of his memory. Please 
God, she was cut off now for ever from the man she 
called husband. Her eyes must soon be opened, and 
he pictured her loathing, her horror of disgust. 
There were other thoughts at the back of his mind, 
which he choked down, for this was no time for 
pretty fancies. But it comforted him to think that 
he was fighting for the happiness of the girl who 
sang “Diana.” 

He slept little and at dawn was up and dressed 
in his frieze and leather, his coarse stockings and 
his hob-nailed shoes. The frost was passing, and a 
mild south wind blew up the vale, softening the snow 
crust and sending runnels of water down the hol¬ 
lows and eaves of the great drifts. Alastair found 
the landlord breakfasting in the dog-kennel he called 
his room. 

“I am going to Brightwell,” he told him, “and 
may be absent for days. Expect me back when you 
see me. Keep my room locked, and leave the key 
as before in the crack below the broken axle-hole 
of the mill.” Then he stepped out-of-doors, where 
the milkers were just opening the byres, and soon 
was on the hillside with his face to the High Peak. 

He crossed the high road and looked at the 
tracks. There was one fresh and clear, that of a 
man in heavy boots plodding towards the inn. 
There were faint hoof marks also, but they seemed 
to be old. He reflected that the thaw could not have 
begun till after midnight, and that if Kyd had rid¬ 
den this road his horse’s track would have shown no 
more than the others of yesterday. 


205 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

The sun was well above the horizon when he 
reached the park wall of Brightwell and entered 
the demesne by his usual gap. It was a morning 
like early spring, when the whole world was full of 
melting snows, running waters and light breezes. 
His plan was to go to the wood which overhung the 
kitchen yard and gave a prospect of the house and 
all its environs. There he would watch till noon, in 
the hope that either Kyd would appear or one of 
Lady Norreys’ party. If the former, he would fol¬ 
low him and have the interview for which his soul 
longed; if the latter, then he would find a way of 
getting speech and learning the nature of the house¬ 
hold. If nothing happened by noon, he would con¬ 
trive to make his way into the kitchen as before, and 
trust to his wits to find an errand. 

He saw no one as he forded the now turbulent 
stream and climbed the farther slope to the wood of 
hazels and ashes which clung like an eyebrow to the 
edge of a bare grey bluff, beneath which were the 
roofs of the rearmost outbuildings. But as he 
entered the wood he received a shock. Suddenly he 
had the consciousness that he was being observed, 
which comes as from a special sense to those who 
have lived much in peril of their lives in lonely 
places. He cowered like a rabbit, and seemed to 
detect very fgint and far-off movements in the 
undergrowth which were too harsh and sudden for 
a wild animal. Then they ceased, and the oppres¬ 
sion passed. He threaded his way through the 
undergrowth to his old lair beside a stone, where a 
tangle of fern hid his head, and there he sat him 
down to wait. 

It was a very wet anchorage. The frozen ground 


206 The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

beneath him was melting into slush, rivulets de¬ 
scended from the branches, vagrant winds blew ava¬ 
lanches of melting snow like hail in his face. He 
grew cold and stiff, and there was no such drama on 
the stage before him as might have caused him to 
forget his icy stall. He saw in every detail the 
morning awakening of a Derbyshire manor. A man 
with his head tied up in a stocking wheeled barrow¬ 
loads of chopped logs from the wood-hovel; another 
brought milk pails from the byres; while two stable- 
boys led out to water various horses, among which 
Alastair recognised those once ridden by Mr John¬ 
son and Edom. The butler Bennet, wearing a kind 
of dingy smock, shuffled out-of-doors and cried 
shrilly for someone who failed to appear. Then 
came a long spell of quiet—breakfast, thought Alas¬ 
tair. It was broken by a stout fellow in boots, whom 
he had not seen before, coming from the direction 
of the kitchen, shouting the name of “Peter.” Peter 
proved to be one of the stable-boys, who, having 
been goaded by a flight of oaths into activity, pro¬ 
duced in a space of five minutes a horse saddled and 
bridled and tolerably well groomed. This the man 
in boots led round to the front of the house, and 
presently, out from the shelter of the leafless avenue, 
appeared Sir John Norreys, in a hurry as usual and 
heading for the bridle-path to Dovedale. 

This told Alastair two things. First, that in all 
likelihood Mr Kyd had never been to Brightwell, or 
had left earlier, otherwise Sir John would scarcely 
have fled his company. Second, that the said Sir 
John had been restored to his lady and was living 
openly in the house, and not, as he had half sus¬ 
pected, hidden in some priest-hole in the back parts. 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 207 

The morning passed on leaden wings, for the 
thought that Kyd was not there had dashed Alas- 
tair’s spirits. Once he seemed to hear the sound of 
breathing close at hand, and after some search 
traced it to a deep bed of leaves under which a 
hedgehog was snoring in its winter sleep. Once the 
pied snout of a badger, returning late to his earth, 
parted the thicket. Just before noon he saw that 
which set his mind off on a new tack. Down the 
valley, a matter of half a mile from the house, a 
brook entered the stream from the west, and, since 
the hills there overhung the water, flowed for the 
last part of its course in a miniature ravine. Both 
sides of the dell were thickly covered with scrub 
oak, but glades had been cut, and at the intersection 
of two on the near bank stood a thatched hut. Alas- 
tair had noticed it before, and from his present eyrie 
it was clearly visible. 

Below him in the courtyard the butler suddenly 
appeared and, shading his eyes, looked down the 
valley. Then he took from his pocket a handker¬ 
chief and waved it three times, staring hard after 
each wave. Alastair followed his gaze and saw that 
he was looking towards the oak wood. Presently 
from the hut there a figure emerged, waved a white 
rag three times, and disappeared in the scrub. The 
butler seemed satisfied, and turned back to the 
house, from which he emerged again with a covered 
basket. A boy rose from a bench, took the basket 
and set off at a boy’s trot. Alastair watched his 
progress and noted that he did not take the direct 
road, but kept unobtrusively in the shade of thickets. 
He avoided the glades and reached the hut by an 
overland route through the scrub. He seemed to 


208 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

stay about a minute within, and then hurried back 
by the way he had gone. The butler was waiting 
for him in the yard, and the two talked for a little, 
after which the boy went off whistling. 

There was someone in the hut in the oak scrub— 
someone who was being fed, and who did not wish 
to reveal himself to the house. It could only be 
Kyd. At the notion Alastair’s face flushed and he 
forgot his cold vigil. The road was open for that 
meeting with Kyd, alone and secure, which was his 
main desire. Having satisfied himself that the coast 
was clear, he began to worm his way along the 
hillside. 

At the edge of the covert he reconnoitred again. 
A figure had revealed itself in the pleasance which 
skirted one side of the house—a large figure which 
took the air on a green walk and appeared to be 
reading, with a book held very near its eyes. It 
was Mr Samuel Johnson, and for one moment he 
hesitated as to whether he should not first have 
speech with him. There was ample cover to reach 
him by way of a sunk fence. It was a critical deci¬ 
sion, had he known it, but he took it lightly. 
His duty and his pleasure was first to settle with 
Kyd. 

He reached the oak shaw without difficulty, and, 
like the boy, shunned the glades and squeezed 
through the thick undergrowth. He stopped once, 
for he thought he heard a faint whistle, but decided 
that it was only a bird. There were no windows in 
the hut, which, as he neared it, proved to be a far 
solider thing than he had imagined, being built of 
stout logs, jointed between stouter uprights, and 
roofed in with thatch as carefully woven as that of 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 209 

a dwelling-house. He listened, but all was quiet 
within. 

The door yielded and he stepped inside with a 
quick motion, drawing it behind him, for the place 
was in sight of the house. . . . Then something 
smote him in the dark. He felt himself falling, and 
threw out his hand, which gripped only on vacancy 
and blackness. . . . 

The first pin-prick of consciousness found him 
climbing. There was a sound of sea water in his 
ears, and the salt tingled in his eyes and nostrils, 
for he had been diving from the Frenchman’s Rock 
and was still breathless with it. Now he was going 
up and up steeps of bracken and granite to the flat 
top where the ripe blackberries were. He was on 
Eilean a Fhraoich, had crossed over that morning 
in Angus Og’s coble—a common Saturday’s ploy. 
. . . But he found it very hard to get up the ledges, 
for they were always slipping from beneath him, and 
only wild clutches at the bracken kept him from 
slithering down to the beach. Also his head sang 
abominably, and there was a queer smell in his nose, 
more than salt, a smell like burning—burning lime. 
He wished he had not dived so deep. . . . Then 
his eyes suddenly stabbed him with pain and the 
beach of Eilean a Fhraoich disappeared, and the 
sun and the sky and the dancing sea. All was black 
now, with a pin-point of light which was not the sun. 

“Ye struck him over hard, Ben,’’ a voice said. 

“Never you fear,” came the answer. “I know 
the stout pretty heads of these Scotchmen.” He 
waved the light over his face. “See, he is coming 
round already.” 


210 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 


Alastair would have liked to speak, for he was 
worried about Eilean a Fhraoich and the smell in 
his nose was overpowering. But as his voice strug¬ 
gled to emerge it woke a deadly nausea, and he 
seemed to sink again down, down through cottony 
worlds of utter feebleness. . . . 

His next conscious moment found him lying with 
his head propped up, while someone tried to open 
his lips with a spoon and pour hot liquid between 
them. The stuff burned his throat but it did not 
sicken him. He moved himself to take it better and 
discovered that the slightest motion shot a flight of 
arrows through his head, arrows of an intolerable 
pain. So he kept very still, only opening his eyes by 
slow degrees. It was very dark, but there was a 
tiny light somewhere which showed a hand and arm 
moving from a bowl to his mouth and back again. 

. . . He began to piece his surroundings together. 
He was indoors somewhere and someone was feed¬ 
ing him, but beyond that he could tell nothing, so he 
slipped back into sleep. 

After that he began to come again more fre¬ 
quently to the world, and the pain in his head and 
eyes bothered him less. He knew when meal-time 
came, for it was preceded by a dazzling brightness 
(which was daylight through the open door) and at¬ 
tended by a lesser light, which was a stable lantern. 
Slowly he began to reason and observe, and work his 
way back till he saw suddenly in his mind’s eye the 
outside of the hut, and could remember the last 
waking moment. Then he heard a man’s voice which 
woke a chord in his memory, and further bits of the 
past emerged. Soon he reached a stage when in a 


211 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

flood the whole story of his journeys and perplexi¬ 
ties rolled back into his mind, and he grew sick again 
with a worse kind of nausea. Still he could not 
quite recapture the link; he saw everything up to a 
certain noon, and realised the dim world which now 
enveloped him, but he could not find the archway 
between the two. Then one day the hand that 
brought his food left the door wide open, and in the 
light of it he saw a dark gypsy-looking fellow who 
smiled impishly but not malevolently. 

“No ill will, dear pretty gentleman,” he whined. 
“You knew too much and were proving too inquisi¬ 
tive, so them as I obeys bade me put you to sleep 
for a tidy bit. No harm is meant you, so eat your 
pretty dinner and say your pretty prayers and go 
beddie-bye like a good little master. You’re picking 
up strength like a cub fox.” 

Alastair saw again the dim door of the hut, felt 
the musty darkness, and the fiery pain that seemed 
to rend his skull. Now he had the tale complete. 

The gypsy left him to feed himself, which was 
achieved at the expense of spilling a third of the 
soup. He sat on a pile of ash poles, swinging his 
legs, and preening himself like a jay. 

“Ben was too clever for you, my dainty gentle¬ 
man. He was a-watching for you days back, and 
when you was a-creeping belly-flat Ben was never a 
dozen yards behind you. He was in the wood above 
the stable that morning when you arrived, and ’twas 
him as arranged the play about the Shaw Hut with 
old Bennet. Not but what you had a pretty notion 
of travelling, my dear, and nimble legs to you. I 
owed you one for the day with Oglethorpe’s soldiers 


212 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 


and I paid it that morning at the Flambury meet. 
Now you owes me one for this device, and I’m wait¬ 
ing for you to pay it. All for a bit of sport is Ben.” 

Alastair let him brag and asked him but the one 
question. “How long have I been here?” 

“Nineteen days,” said the gypsy. “This is now 
the second day of December.” 

The news would have put the young man into a 
fever had his wits been strong enough to grasp its 
full meaning. As it was, he only felt hazily that 
things had gone very ill with him, without any 
impulse to take the wheel from Destiny’s hand and 
turn it back. 

All morning he drowsed. He was not uncom¬ 
fortable, for he had a bed of bracken and rushes 
and sufficient blankets for the mild winter weather. 
An old woman, the wife of the butler, brought water 
and bathed his head daily, and the food, which was 
soup or stew of game, was good and sufficient. That 
day for the first time he felt his strength returning, 
and as the hours passed restlessness grew on him. 
It was increased by an incident which happened in 
the afternoon. He was awakened from a doze by 
the sound of steps and voices without. Two people 
were walking there, and since there were interstices 
between the logs of the wall it was possible to over¬ 
hear their conversation. 

Said one, a female voice, “He left Manchester 
two days ago?” 

“Two days ago, St Andrew’s Day,” was the reply, 
“and therefore a day of happy omen for a Scot.” 

“So in two days he will be in D-derby.” 

That stammer he would have known in the babble 
of a thousand tongues. The other—who could he 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 213 

be but her husband, and the man they spoke of but 
the Prince? 

A hand was laid on the latch and the door shook. 
Then a key was inserted and the lock turned. Alas- 
tair lay very quiet, but below his eyelids he saw the 
oblong of light blocked by a figure. That figure 
turned in profile the better to look at him, and he 
saw a sharp nose. 

“He is asleep,” said the man to his companion 
without. “He has been sick, for there was a sharp 
scuffle before he was taken, but now he is mending. 
Better for him, poor devil, had he died!” 

“Oh, Jack, what will they do with him?” 

“That is for His Highness to decide. A traitor’s 
death, at any rate. He may get the benefit of his 
French commission and be shot, or he may swing 
like better men in hemp.” 

The other voice was quivering and anxious. “I 
cannot credit it. Oh, Jack, I am convinced that 
there is error somewhere. He may yet clear him¬ 
self.” 

“Tut, the man was caught in open treason, inter¬ 
cepting messages from the West and handing them 
to the Government. His lies to you prove his guilt. 
He professed to be hastening to the Prince, and he 
is taken here crouching in a wood fifty miles from 
his road, but conveniently near General Ligonier 
and the Duke of Kingston.” 

The door was shut and the key turned, but not 
before Alastair heard what he took for a sigh. 

There was no sleep for him that night. His head 
had cleared, his blood ran easily again, the strength 
had come back to his limbs, and every nerve in him 
was strung to a passion of anger. His fury was so 


214 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 


great that it kept him calm. Most desperately had 
things miscarried. The Prince was on the threshold 
of the English midlands, and all these weeks Kyd 
and Norreys had been at their rogueries unchecked. 
Where were the western levies now? What devil’s 
noose awaited the northern army, marching into 
snares laid by its own professed allies? Worse, if 
worse were possible, the blame would be laid on him; 
Norreys and Kyd had so arranged it that he would 
pass as traitor; doubtless they had their cooked 
evidence in waiting. And in the dear eyes of the 
lady he was guilty, her gentle heart wept for his 
shame. At the memory of her voice, as it had made 
its last protest, he could have beaten his head on the 
ground. 

H is bonds had always been light—a long chain 
with a padlock clasping his left ankle and fastened 
to a joist of the hut—for his captors trusted to the 
strength of the walls and his frail condition. Dur¬ 
ing the night he worked at this and managed so to 
weaken one of the links that he thought he could 
break it at will. But the morning brought him a 
bitter disappointment. Some fresh orders must have 
been issued, for Gypsy Ben produced new fetters of 
a more formidable type, which bound Alastair to a 
narrow radius of movement. As a make-weight he 
did not lock the door, but left it ajar. “You’re like 
me, gentleman dear,” he said; “you like the sky over 
you and to hear birds talking round about. I can 
humour you in that, if you don’t mind a shorter 
tether.” 

It was a fine morning, the third of December, with 
a loud frolicking wind and clouds that sailed in con¬ 
voys. In black depression of heart Alastair watched 


The Hut in the Oak Shaw 


215 


the tiny half-moon of landscape vouchsafed to him, 
three yards of glade, a clump of hazels, the scarred 
grey bole of an ancient oak. He had toiled at his 
bonds till every muscle was wrung, and he had not 
moved a link or coupling one fraction of an inch. 
Breathless, furious, despairing, he watched a pert 
robin approaching the door in jerks, when the bird 
rose startled at someone’s approach. Alastair, lift¬ 
ing dreary eyes, saw the homely countenance of 
Edom. 

The man cried out, and stood staring. 

“Guid sake, sir, is this the way of it? I heard 
that something ill had happened to ye, but I never 
jaloused this.” 

Hungry eyes read the speaker’s face, and saw 
nothing there but honest perplexity. 

“They have invented a lie,” Alastair said, “and 
call me a traitor. Do you believe it?” 

“Havers,” said Edom cheerfully. “They never 
telled me that, or they’d have got the lee in their 
chafts. Whae said it? Yon lang wersh lad they 
ca’ Sir John?” 

“Is your master here?” 

“He’s cornin’ the morn and I’m michty glad o’t. 
For three weeks I’ve been like a coo in an unco loan. 
But, Captain Maclean, sir, I’m wae for you, sittin’ 
sae gash and waefu’ in this auld bourock.” 

Alastair’s eyes had never left Edom’s face, and 
suddenly his mind was made up. He resolved to 
trust everything to this man’s honesty. 

“You can help me if you will. Can I count on 
you ?” 

“If it’s onything reasonably possible,” said the 
cautious Edom. 


216 The Hut in the Oak Shaw 

“I need friends. I want you to summon them.” 

“I’ll be blithe to do that.” 

“You know the country round and the inns?” 

“I’ve traivelled the feck o’t on my twae feet and 
sampled the maist o’ the publics.” 

“Then find a cross-roads which has broom on the 
signpost or an inn with an open eye painted under 
the sign. Whistle this air,” and he hummed Mid¬ 
winter’s ditty. 

Edom made a tolerable attempt at it. “I mind 
ye whustled that when we were huntit i’ the big 
wud. And after that?” 

“Someone will come to you and ask your errand. 
Tell him of my plight and direct him or guide him 
here.” 

Edom nodded, and without more ado turned and 
swung out for the river-bridge and the high road. 


Chapter XIII 


JOURNEYMAN JOHN 

f T 1 HE hours passed slowly, for Alastair was in a 
ferment of hope and fear, into which like 
lightning-flashes in a dark sky shot now and then a 
passion of fury, as he remembered Claudia Norreys. 
He had not seen her as she stood outside the hut, but 
he could picture the sad disillusionment of her eyes, 
and the quiver of her mouth as she protested against 
a damning truth which she yet needs must believe. 
Her gentle voice sounded maddeningly in his ears. 
He could not forecast what his fate might be, he 
could not think settled thoughts, he could not plan; 
his mind was in that helplessness in which man falls 
back upon prayer. 

The afternoon drew to a quiet sunset. The door 
of the hut remained open, and through it he saw the 
leafless knotted limbs of the oaks, which had before 
been a grey tracery against the smoky brown of the 
scrub, fire with gold and russet. There was no sign 
of Edom or his friends, but that at the best he could 
hardly hope for till late, there was no sign of his 
gaoler or of any living thing—he was left alone 
with the open door before him, and the strict fetters 
on his limbs. The sun sank, the oaks grew grey 
again, a shiver went through the earth as the night 
cold descended. The open space in the door had 
turned to ebony dark before there was a sound of 
steps. 

It was Ben the Gypsy, and he had two others with 

217 


218 Journeyman John 

him, whom Alastair could not see clearly in the light 
of the single lantern. The man seemed in high ex¬ 
citement. 

“ ’Tis time to be stirring, pretty gentleman,” he 
chirruped. “Hey for the high road and the hills 
in the dark o’ the moon, says I. No time for supper, 
neither, but there’ll be a long feast and a fine feast 
where you’re going. Up with him, Dick lad and 
Tony lad. I’m running no risks with the bonds of 
such a fiery fearless gentleman.” 

Two stalwart followers swung him in their arms, 
and marched down one of the glades, the gypsy with 
the lantern dancing before, like a will-o’-the-wisp. 
At the foot of the slope were horses, and on one of 
them—a ragged shelty—they set him, undoing his 
leg bonds, and fastening them again under the ani¬ 
mal’s belly. The seat was not uncomfortable, for 
he had his feet in stirrups of a sort, but it was im¬ 
possible for him to escape. His hands they tied, 
and one of the party took the shelty’s bridle. 

The road ran up-hill, first through woods and then 
in a waste of bracken and heather and scree. Black 
despair was Alastair’s portion. His enemies had 
triumphed, for even if Edom discovered some of 
Midwinter’s folk, they would find the hut empty, and 
how could they trace him by night over such track¬ 
less country? His body as well as his heart was 
broken, for the sudden change from the inertia of 
the hut made every limb ache and set his head 
swimming. Soon he was so weary that he lost all 
count of the way. Dimly he was conscious that 
they descended into glens and climbed again to 
ridges, but the growing chill and greater force of 
the wind told him that they were steadily rising. 


219 


Journeyman John 

Presently the wrack was blown off the face of the 
sky, the winter regiment of stars shone out, and in 
their faint radiance he saw all about him the dark 
fields of the hills. Often he thought himself faint¬ 
ing. Repeatedly he would have fallen, but for the 
belly girth, and more than once he bowed over his 
horse’s neck in deep weariness. Ben the Gypsy 
spoke to him, but as he did not answer rode ahead, 
with his lantern bobbing like a ship’s riding light in 
a gusty harbour. 

Then Alastair fell asleep, and was tortured by 
nightmares. Indeed all the latter part of the jour¬ 
ney was a nightmare, sleeping and waking, for it was 
a steady anguish, half muffled by a sense of crazy 
unreality. When the party stopped at last, he came 
back from caverns of confused misery, and when the 
belly-girth was cut fell leadenly to the ground. The 
ride in an unnatural position had given him a vio¬ 
lent cramp in his right leg, and the sharp pain woke 
him to clear consciousness. He was picked up and 
carried inside some building, and as he crossed the 
threshold had a vision of steep walls of cliff all 
about him. 

After that he must have slept, for when he next 
remembered he was lying on a settle before a fire 
of peat and heather-roots, and, watching him 
through the smoke, sat Gypsy Ben, whittling a stick 
with a long, fine shagreen-handled knife. 

“Feeling happier now?” the gypsy asked. “Soon 
it will be supper time and after that the soft bed 
and the long sleep, my darling dear. Ben’s are the 
kind hands.” 

Something in the voice made Alastair shake off 
his torpor. The gypsy, as he first remembered him, 


220 Journeyman John 

had been a mischievous sneering fellow, and he had 
longed to wring his neck when he rode off grinning 
that day at the Flambury Hunt. In the hut he had 
been almost friendly, protesting that he bore no 
malice but only obeyed orders. But now—there was 
something bright and mad about those dark dancing 
eyes, something ghoulish in the soft gloating voice. 
Had his orders been changed? What plan of his 
foes was served by bringing him thus into this no- 
man’s-land of the hills? 

“Why am I here?” he asked, and his tongue so 
stumbled between his dry lips that the gypsy passed 
him a jug of ale that was being kept warm by the fire. 

“Orders, kind precious sir. Them that I obeys 
has changed their mind about you, and thinks you 
are too dear and good for this wicked, wicked world. 
Therefore they hands you over to Gypsy Ben, who 
brings you the straight way to Journeyman John.” 

The other looked puzzled, and the gypsy rose 
and, dancing to a far end of the room, opened a 
large rough door like a partition in a cowshed. In¬ 
stantly a great gust swept the place, driving clouds 
of fine dust from the hearth. A noise came from 
that darkness beyond the door, a steady rumbling 
and grinding which had been a mere undercurrent of 
sound when the door was shut, but now dominated 
the place—a sound like mill-stones working under 
a full press of water, joined with a curious shudder¬ 
ing like wind in an old garret. The gypsy stood 
entranced, one hand to his ear, his eyes glittering. 

“That’s him we call Journeyman John. Hark 
to him grinding his old teeth! Ah, John, hungry 
again! But cheer up, there’s a fine supper a-com- 

• i ) 

ing. 


221 


Journeyman John 

He shut the door as a showman shuts a cage. 
The light died out of his eyes, leaving only smoul¬ 
dering fires. 

“That’s the deepest pot-hole in all the land,’’ he 
said, “and John like a scaly serpent lies coiled at 
the foot of it. Nothing that goes in there comes 
out—leastways only in threads and buttons by way 
of Eldingill, and that long after. There’s your bed 
made for you, master, and it’s Ben’s duty to tuck 
you in. Oh, Ben’s a kind mammy.” 

The young man’s brain had been slow to grasp the 
fate prepared for him, but the crazy leer which 
accompanied the last words brought a hideous illu¬ 
mination, and at the same time the faintest ray of 
hope. The man was clearly a madman, and there¬ 
fore incalculable. With a great effort Alastair 
steeled his heart and composed his voice. 

“What of supper?” he asked. “That comes be¬ 
fore bed in a hospitable house.” 

The gypsy laughed like a magpie, high and harsh. 
“Supper be it!” he cried, “and a good one, for John 
is a generous host. Hey, Bobadilla!” 

An old woman answered his cry and proceeded to 
lay on the table plates and glasses, a platter of 
bread and the end of a cheese. Presently she came 
back with a great dish of frizzling eggs and fried 
ham. The gypsy lifted the jug of ale from the fire¬ 
side, and drew in a chair to the board. 

“Mammy will feed her pretty chick,” he said, “for 
the chick’s claws are too dangerous to loose.” 

Alastair’s heart had ceased fluttering, and an 
immense composure had settled upon him. He had 
even an appetite, and was able to swallow the por¬ 
tion of eggs and ham which the gypsy conveyed to 


222 Journeyman John 

his mouth on the end of his knife. The ale was 
most welcome, for his thirst was fierce, and the 
warmth and the spice of it recalled his bodily 
strength. By now he was recovering a manlier 
resolution. He was a soldier and had faced death 
often, though never in so gruesome a form. If it 
were the end, so let it be, but he would not abandon 
hope while breath was in his body. He even forced 
himself to a laugh. 

“Tell me of this Journeyman John,” he asked. 
“What house is this that he lurks behind?” 

“A poor farm called Pennycross, with no neigh¬ 
bour nearer than six miles. Goody Lugg is the 
farmer, a worthy widow who looks after a cow and 
a dozen wethers and leaves the care of John to Ben 
and his friends. Mighty convenient fellow is John 
to keep in a neighbourhood. If a girl would be quit 
of a love-child or a wife of a stepson they come to 
Ben to do their business. Ay, pretty sir, and John 
has had dainty meat. Listen,” and he thrust his face 
close to Alastair. “I have done a job or two for 
Lord Dash and Lord Mash—naming no names, as 
being against my sworn oath—when they were in 
trouble with petticoats no longer wanted. And be¬ 
fore my time there was the young heir of Crokover 
—you’ve heard that tale. Ay, ay, the Journeyman 
does his work swift and clean and lasting and keeps 
mum!” 

“Who paid you to bring me here?” 

The gypsy grinned cunningly. “Since I swore no 
oaths and you’ll never live to peach, you shall hear. 
Down in Brightwell live two grey she-corbies. ’Twas 
them gave Ben the office.” 

“No other?” 


223 


Journeyman John 

“No other except a red-faced Scot that rides the 
roads like a packman. Him I have not seen for 
weeks, but the corbies in Brightwell work to his 
bidding. All three love the bright yellow gold.” 

“Sir John Norreys had a part in it?” 

“Nay, nay, pretty sir. Sir John, brave gentleman, 
was privy to your capture and imprisonment, but 
he knows nothing of this night’s work. He is too 
young and raw for so rare a thing as my John.” 

“You are paid well, I fancy. What if I were to 
pay you better to let me go?” 

“What you have is already mine,” said the gypsy. 

“A large sum will be brought you in twelve hours 
if you will let me send a message, and as proof of 
good faith I will remain here in your power till it 
is paid.” 

The gypsy’s eye glittered with what was not 
greed. 

“Though you filled my hat with guineas, my dar¬ 
ling, I would not let you go. John is hungry, for it 
is long since he tasted proper meat, and I have 
promised him that to-night he shall sup. I have 
whispered it in his great ear, and he has purred hap¬ 
pily like a cat. Think you I would disappoint John? 
Do not fear, pretty sir. It is midwinter and the 
world is cold, and full of hard folks and wan cheeks 
and pinched bellies. But down with John there is 
deep sleep and it is sunny and warm, for the fires of 
Hell burn next door. Nay, nay, John is not the 
Devil, but only a cousin on the spindle side.” 

In spite of his resolution Alastair felt his blood 
chilling as the gypsy babbled. Hope had grown 
very faint, for what could he do, manacled as he 
was, in a struggle against a lithe and powerful mad- 


224 


Journeyman John 

man, who could call in the other companions of the 
night to help him? The undercurrent of sound 
seemed to be growing louder, and the wooden parti¬ 
tion shook a little with the reverberation. ’ How 
many minutes would pass before he was falling into 
that pit of echoing darkness! 

“When does John sup?” he asked. 

“When he calls for supper,” was the answer. “At 
a certain hour each night the noise of his grinding 
becomes louder. Hark, it is beginning now. In less 
than half an hour he will speak. . . . You have 
a ring on your finger, a pretty ring—give it to Ben 
that it may remind him of a happy night and a 
sweet gentleman.” 

“Why do you ask for it when I am in your power, 
and it is yours for the taking?” 

“Because a thing gifted is better than a thing 
taken. Plunder a man must sell, but a gift he can 
wear. If I had a dead man’s hat on my head took 
from his body, it would be crying out in my ears, 
but if he had kindly given it me, it would fit well and 
hold its peace. I want that ring that I may wear 
it and kiss it and call to mind my darling dear.” 

The gypsy seized the hand and peered at the 
ring, a heavy jasper cut with the crest of Morvern, 
a tower embattled. 

“Set free my hands, then, and I will give it you,” 
said Alastair. 

The gypsy grinned cunningly. “And risk your 
strong fingers at my throat, my pretty one. Nay, 
nay. Just say the words. ‘I gift my ring freely 
and lovingly to Gypsy Ben,’ and hark to the service 
I will do you. With my own hand I will cut your 
pretty throat, and save you the cruel fall down, down 


225 


Journeyman John 

into the darkness. Most gentlemen fear that more 
than death. ’Tis unfair to the Journeyman, for he’s 
no raven that can put up with dead carrion, but a 
peregrine who kills what he eats. But for this once 
he will pardon his servant Ben. Say the words, gen¬ 
tleman dear. See, it is getting very close on supper 
time and John is crying out.” 

He lifted his hand, an eldritch and evil figure, and 
sure enough the noise of the grinding had risen till 
it was like a storm in the night. The wooden parti¬ 
tion and the windows at the far side of the room 
rattled violently and the whole place, roof, walls and 
rafters, shuddered. In a tumult a small sound 
pitched in a different key will sometimes make itself 
heard, and on Alastair’s ear there fell something 
like a human voice. It may have been fancy, but, 
though he had abandoned hope, it encouraged him to 
play for time. 

“I do not fear the darkness,” he said, “or death 
in the darkness. But it is a notion of my family 
to die in the daylight. I will gladly speak the words 
which gift you the ring if you will let me live till- 
dawn. It cannot be far distant.” 

The gypsy took from his fob a vast old silver 
watch. “Nay, sir, not till daybreak, which is still 
four hours distant. But John shall wait for one 
half-hour on his supper, and he cannot complain, for 
he will have the killing of it himself. Take your 
pleasure, then, for thirty minutes by this clock which 
Ben had of the Miller of Bryston before he was 
hanged at Derby. What shall we do to make the 
moments go merrily? Shall Ben sing to you, who 
soon will be singing with angels?” 

The gypsy was on his feet now, his face twitching 


226 Journeyman John 

with excitement and his eyes like two coals. He 
skipped on the table and cut a step. 

“You shall see the Gallows Jig, darling mine, 
which goes to the tune of ‘Fairladies.’ ” 

With grace and skill he threaded his way among 
the dishes on the stout oaken board, showing a 
lightness of foot amazing in one wearing heavy 
riding-boots. 

“Bravo,” cried Alastair. “If I were unshackled 
I would give you the sword-dance as we dance it in 
the Highlands.” If the maniac could be absorbed 
in dance and song he might forget the passage of 
time. Somehow the young man believed that w T ith 
daylight he would have a chance of salvation. 

The gypsy leaped from the table, and took a long 
pull at the ale jug. 

“Sing in turn or sing in chorus,” he cried. “Raise 
a ditty, precious gentleman.” 

Alastair’s dry throat produced a stave of Des- 
portes—a love song which he had last heard at a 
fete champetre at Fontainebleau. The gypsy ap¬ 
proved and bellowed a drinking catch. Then to 
Alastair’s surprise he lowered his voice and sang 
very sweetly and truly the song of “Diana.” The 
delicate air, with the fragrance of the wildwood in 
it, pierced Alastair like a sword. He remembered it 
as Midwinter had sung it—as Claudia Norreys had 
crooned it, one foot beating time by the hearth and 
the glow of firelight on her slim body. It roused in 
him a new daring and a passionate desire to live. 
He saw, by a glance at the watch which lay on the 
table, that the half-hour had already been exceeded. 

“Nobly sung,” he cried. “Where got you that 
song?” 


Journeyman John 227 

“Once I heard a pretty lady chant it as she walked 
in a garden. And I have heard children sing it far 
away from here—and long, long ago.” 

The man’s craziness had ebbed a little, and he 
was staring into the fire. Alastair, determined that 
he should not look at the watch, coaxed him to sing 
again, and praised his music, and when he did not 
respond, himself sang—for this new mood had 
brought back his voice—a gypsy lay of his own land, 
a catch of the wandering Macadams that trail up 
and down the sea-coast. Gentle and soothing it 
was, with fairy music in it, which the Good Folk 
pipe round the sheilings on the July eves. Ben beat 
time to it with his hand, and after it sang “Colin 
on a summer day” with a chorus that imitated very 
prettily a tabor acompaniment. . . . Alastair’s 
glance at the watch told him that more than an 
hour had passed, and he realised, too, that the noise 
of the Journeyman was dying down. 

“Your turn,” said the gypsy, who had let his legs 
sprawl toward the fire, and seemed like one about 
to go to sleep. 

An unlucky inspiration came to the young man. 
He broke into the song of “The Naked Men” and 
he let his voice ring out so that the thing might have 
been heard outside the dwelling. For a moment 
the gypsy did not seem to hear; then he frowned, as 
if an unpleasant memory were aroused; then sud¬ 
denly he woke to full consciousness. 

“Hell and damnation!” he cried. “What war- 
lock taught you that? Stop the cursed thing,” and 
he struck the singer in the face. 

Then his eye saw the watch, and his ear caught 
the cessation of the Journeyman’s grinding. His 


228 Journeyman John 

madness flared up again, he forgot all about the 
ring, and he leaped upon the prisoner like a wild¬ 
cat. He dragged him, helpless as he was, from the 
settle and flung him across the table, sending the 
remains of supper crashing to the floor. Then he 
left him, rushed to the wooden partition, and tore 
it apart. From the black pit thus revealed a thin 
grey vapour seemed to ascend, and the noise was 
like the snarling of hounds in kennel. 

“John is hungry,” he cried. “I have kept you 
waiting, my darling, but your meat is ready,” and 
he was back clutching his prisoner’s middle. 

The despair and apathy of the earlier hours had 
gone, and Alastair steeled himself to fight for his 
life. The gypsy’s strength was always respectable 
and now his mania made it prepotent. The young 
man managed to get his manacled ankles crooked in 
a leg of the table, but they were plucked away with 
a dislocating wrench. His head grated on the floor 
as he was dragged towards the pit. And then he 
saw a chance, for the rope that bound his wrists 
caught in a staple fixed in the floor, apparently to 
make an anchorage for a chain that had worked an 
ancient windlass. The gypsy pulled savagely, but 
the good hemp held, and he was forced to drop the 
body and examine the obstacle. Alastair noted that 
beyond the pit was a naked dripping wall of cliff, 
and that the space between the edge and the walls 
of the shed inclined downward, so that anything 
that once reached that slope would be easily rolled 
into the abyss. Death was very near him and yet 
he could not despair. He lifted up his voice in a 
great shout for help. A thousand echoes rang in 


Journeyman John 229 

the pit, and following on them came the gypsy’s 
crazy cackle. 

“Do not fear, pretty darling. John’s arms are 
soft bedding,” and he dragged him over the lip of 
stone beyond which the slope ran to the darkness. 

Once again by a miracle his foot caught. This 
time it was only a snag of rock, but it had a rough 
edge to it, and by the mercy of God, the bonds at 
his ankles had been already frayed. The gypsy, 
who had him by the shoulders and arms, tugged 
frantically, and the friction of the stone’s edge 
severed the last strands. Suddenly Alastair found 
his ankles free, and with a desperate scramble tried 
to rise. But his feet were cramped and numb and 
he could not find a stand. A tug from the gypsy 
brought him to the very edge of the abyss. But 
the incident had wakened hope, and once again he 
made the vault ring with a cry for help. 

It was answered. The dim place suddenly blazed 
with light, and there was a sound of men’s voices. 
For an instant the gypsy loosed his hold to stare, 
and then with a scream resumed his efforts. But in 
that instant Alastair’s feet had found on the very 
brink a crack of stone, which enabled him to brace 
his legs and resist. The thing was trivial and he 
could not hold out long, but the purchase was suffi¬ 
cient to prevent that last heave from hurling him 
into the void. 

The gypsy seemed suddenly to change his mind. 
He let the young man’s shoulders drop, so that he 
fell huddled by the edge, plucked the long shagreen- 
handled knife from his belt and struck at his neck. 
But the blow never fell. For in the same fraction 


230 Journeyman John 

of time something bright quivered through the air, 
and struck deep in his throat. The man gurgled, 
then grew limp like a sack, and dropped back on 
the ground. Then with a feeble clawing at the air 
he rolled over the brink, struck the side twice, and 
dropped till the noise of his fall was lost in the 
moaning of the measureless deep. 

Alastair lay sick and trembling, not daring to 
move, for his heels were overhanging the void. A 
hand seized him, a strong hand; and though he 
cried out in terror it dragged him up the slope and 
into the room. . . . The intense glare stabbed his 
eyes and he had the same choking nausea as when 
he had been felled in the hut. Then he came sud¬ 
denly out of the fit of horror and saw himself on 
the settle, ready to weep from weariness, but sane 
again and master of himself. 

A dark friendly face was looking down at him. 

“You may travel the world’s roads for a hundred 
years,” said the Spainneach, “and never be nearer 
death. I warned you, Sir Sandy. You have been 
overlong in the South.” 


Chapter XIV 


DUCHESS KITTY ON THE ROAD 

TpiVE hours’ sleep were not enough to rest his 
body, but they were all that his unquiet mind 
would permit. He woke to a sense of great weari¬ 
ness combined with a feverish impulse to drive 
himself to the last limits of his strength. His 
limbs were desperately stiff, and at his first attempt 
to rise he rolled over. A bed had been made for 
him in the attic of the farm, and the view from the 
window showed only the benty shoulder of a hill. 
Slowly the doings of the night came back to him; 
from the bowels of the earth he seemed to hear the 
mutterings of Journeyman John, and he crawled 
down the trap-ladder in a fret to escape from the 
place of horror. 

In the kitchen the Spainneach was cooking eggs 
in a pan, smiling and crooning to himself as if the 
morning and the world were good. He put Alas- 
tair in a chair and fed him tenderly, beating up an 
egg in a cup with French brandy. 

“Have that for your morning’s draught, Sir 
Sandy,” he said. “You are with your friends now, 
so let your anxieties sleep.” 

“They cannot,” said the young man. “I have 
lost weeks of precious time. My grief! but I have 
been the broken reed to lean on! And the Prince 
is in this very shire.” 

“To-night he will lie in Derby. Lord George 

231 


232 Duchess Kitty on the Bond 

Murray has led a column in advance to Congleton 
and the Duke of Kingston has fled back to Lichfield. 
His Grace of Newcastle has sent offers to the 
Prince. All goes well, heart’s darling. Your 
friends have given Cumberland the slip and are on 
the straight road to London.” 

The news stirred his languid blood. 

“But the West,” he cried. “What news of the 
West—of Barrymore and Sir Watkin and Beaufort? 
There is the rub.” And with the speaking of the 
words the whole story of the past weeks unrolled 
itself clear and he dropped his head into his hands 
and groaned. Then he staggered to his feet. 

“There is a man reaches Brightwell this day. He 
must be seized—him and his papers.” Swiftly he 
told the story of Kyd. “Let me lay hands on him 
and I will extort the truth though I have to roast 
him naked, and that truth the Prince must have 
before a man of us sleep. It is the magic key that 
will unlock St. James’s. Have you men to lend 
me?” 

The Spainneach smiled. “Last night they tracked 
you, as few men in England could, and they were 
here to overpower the rascaldom that held the door. 
Now they are scattered, but I have a call to pipe 
them back like curlews. The Spoonbills are at your 
back, Sir Sandy.” 

“Then for God’s sake let us be going,” Alastair 
cried. “Have you a horse for me, for my legs are 
like broomshanks?” 

“Two are saddled and waiting outbye. But first 
I have a little errand to fulfil, which the Master 
charged on me.” 

From a shed he brought armfuls of hay and 


233 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 

straw and piled them in a corner where the joists 
of the roof came low and the thatch could be reached 
by a man’s hand. Into the dry mass he flung a 
smouldering sod from the fire. As Alastair, stiffly 
feeling his stirrups, passed between the dry-stone 
gateposts, he heard a roaring behind him, and, turn¬ 
ing, saw flames licking the roof. 

Presently Journeyman John will lie bare to the 
heavens,” said the Spainneach, “and the wayfaring 
man, though a fool, will understand. Brightwell 
is your goal, Sir Sandy? ’Tis fifteen moorland 
miles.” 

“First let us go to the Sleeping Deer,” was the 
answer. “I have a beard weeks old, and my cos¬ 
tume is not my own. Please God, this day I am 
going into good society and have a high duty to 
perform, so I would be decently attired.” 

The Spainneach laughed. “Still your old self. 
You were always for the thing done in order. But 
for this Kyd of yours—he comes to Brightwell 
to-day, and may depart again, before you take 
order with him. It is desirable that he be de¬ 
tained?” 

“By God, he shall never go,” cried Alastair. 

“The Spoonbills do not fight, but they can make 
a hedge about a man, and they can bring us news 
of him.” 

So at a grey cottage in the winding of a glen the 
Spainneach turned aside, telling Alastair that he 
would overtake him, and when he caught him up 
his face was content. “Mr Kyd will not enter 
Brightwell unknown to us,” he said, “and he will 
assuredly not leave it.” 

The day had been bright in the morning, but ere 


234 Duchess Kitty on the Road 

they descended from the high moors to the wider 
valleys the wind had veered to the north, and a cold 
mist had blown up, which seemed a precursor of 
storm. Rain fell heavily and then cleared, leaving 
a windy sky patched with blue and ruffled with sleet 
blasts. The tonic weather did much to refresh 
Alastair’s body, and to add fuel, if that were pos¬ 
sible, to the fire in his brain. He knew that he was 
living and moving solely on the passion in his spirit, 
for his limbs were fit only for blankets and sleep. 
When his horse stumbled or leaned on the bit he 
realised that the strength had gone out of his arms. 
But his mind amazed him by its ardour of resolu¬ 
tion, as if all the anxieties of the past week had 
been fused into one white-hot fury. ... So far the 
Prince had not failed, and these forced marches 
which would place him between Cumberland and 
the capital were surely proof of undivided counsels. 
Perhaps he had news of the West after all. There 
was his own letter to Lochiel—but in that he had 
promised proofs at Derby, and this day the Prince 
would be in Derby and would not find him. 

“You have seen His Highness ?” he asked the 
Spainneach. 

“At Manchester, for a brief minute, surrounded 
by white cockades.” 

“How did he look?” 

“Sad and reflective—like a man who had staked 
much agains.t odds and does not greatly hope.” 

It was the picture he had made in his own mind. 
But by Heaven he would change it, and bring a 
sparkle again to those eyes and the flush of hope to 
that noble brow. . . . For weeks no news could 
have reached the camp from the West, for Kyd 


235 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 

would have passed it to Norreys and Norreys to 
one of the Whig Dukes in Nottinghamshire, and if 
the levies had marched from Wales the Govern¬ 
ment had had ample warning to intercept them. 
. . . Probably they had not started, for Kyd could 
no doubt counterfeit orders from the Prince. But 
the point was that they were there—men, armed 
men, and money—ready and eager for the field. 
His thoughts were drawing to a point now, and he 
realised what had been the vague fear that so long 
had tormented him. It was that the Prince would 
lose heart—nay, not he, but his Council, and instead 
of striking for St James’s, fall back to a defensive 
w r ar inside the Scottish Border. That way lay 
destruction, slow or speedy—with England uncon¬ 
verted and France uncommitted. But the bold 
road, the true road, would bring France and Eng¬ 
land to their side, and strike terror to the heart of 
their already perplexed enemy. Tower Hill or St 
James’s! Would to God he was now by the 
Prince’s side, instead of Lord George with his 
slow Atholl drawl, or the Secretary Murray, fussy 
and spluttering and chicken-hearted, or the Teagues, 
whose boldness was that of kerns and only made 
the others more cautious. At the thought of his 
Prince’s haggard face he groaned aloud. 

But, please God, it was still in his power to find 
the remedy, and by evening the peril might be past. 
He spurred his horse at the thought, and, since the 
beasts were fresh and they were now on the good 
turf of the vales, the miles flew fast, and they rode 
out of sleet showers into sun. To his surprise he 
found that his attitude to Kyd had changed. He 
loathed the man and longed to crush him, but it 


236 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 

was as a vile creeping thing and not as a personal 
enemy. But against Sir John Norreys he felt a 
furious hatred. The thing was illogical—to hate 
a tool rather than the principal, the more as Nor¬ 
reys had done him no personal ill, while Kyd had 
connived at his death. But had the two been on the 
sward before him with drawn swords he could have 
left the laird of Greyhouses to the Spainneach and 
taken the baronet for himself. Why? His heart 
inexorably gave the answer. The man was the hus¬ 
band of the russet lady; to her ears he had lied, and 
with his lies drawn a moan of pity from her gentle 
lips. For Sir John Norreys, Alastair reserved a 
peculiar vengeance. Kyd might fall to a file of the 
Prince’s muskets, but Norreys must die before the 
cold point of his own steel. And then . . .? 
Claudia would be a free woman—sorrowful, dis¬ 
illusioned, shamefaced, but still a child with the 
world before her, a white page on which love could 
yet write a happy tale. 

They skirted the little hill on which Alastair had 
stood with Midwinter, and came to the high road 
and the door of the Sleeping Deer. There was now 
no need of back stairs, and Alastair, giving up his 
horse to an ostler, boldly entered the hall and made 
for the landlord’s sanctum. But an elegant travel¬ 
ling trunk caught his eye, its leather bearing the 
blazon of a crowned heart, and by the fire a lackey 
in a red-and-blue livery was warming himself. A 
glance through the open door of the stable-yard 
revealed more red and blue, and a fine coach which 
three stable-boys were washing. The landlord was 
not in his room, but in the kitchen, superintending 
the slicing of hams, the plucking of pullets and the 


237 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 

spicing of great tankards of ale. At the sight of 
Alastair he started, called another to take his place 
at the table and beckoned him out-of-doors. 

“I’m joyful to see ye again, for I feared ye had 
come by foul play. That Scotch serving-man was 
here seeking ye more than once, and”—lowering 
his voice—“word came from the Spoonbills, and 
you not here to answer, and me not knowing where 
in hell or Derbyshire ye had got to. Ye’ve hap¬ 
pened on a rare to-do at the Sleeping Deer. Her 
right honourable Grace, the Duchess of Queens- 
berry, has come here to lie the night, before jour¬ 
neying down into the West country. She has been 
at Chatsworth, but the gentles is all a-fleeing south 
now, for fear of the wild Highlandmen. Duke 
William himself escorted her here, and that pretty 
lad, his eldest son, the Lord Hartington, and din¬ 
ner is ordered for three, and my wife’s like to fire 
the roof with perplexity. Ye’ll be for your old 
room, doubtless. It’s been kept tidy against your 
return, and I’ll see that a bite of dinner is sent up 
to ye, when Her Grace is served.” 

The Spainneach had disappeared, so Alastair 
mounted to his attic and set about the long process 
of his toilet. His cramped fingers made a slow 
business of shaving, but at last his chin and cheeks 
were smooth, and the mirror showed a face he rec¬ 
ognised, albeit a face hollow in the cheeks and dark 
about the eyes. As his dressing proceeded his self- 
respect stole back; the fresh-starched shirt, the 
well-ironed cravat, were an assurance that he had 
returned from savagery. By the time he had 
finished he felt his bodily health improved, and 
knew the rudiments of an appetite. The meal and 


238 Duchess Kitty on the Hoad 

the glass of brandy which the landlord brought him 
assisted his transformation, and he seemed to 
breathe again without a burden on his chest. He 
had bidden the landlord look out for the Spain- 
neach, and meantime he had an errand to do on his 
own account; for it occurred to him that the arrival 
of the Duchess Kitty was the solution of one per¬ 
plexity. 

He walked through the store-closet to the landing 
above the staircase. At the half-opened door of 
the Brown Room stood a footman in the Queens- 
berry colours, one who had been with his mistress 
at Cornbury and recognised Alastair. He bowed 
and let him pass; indeed he would have pushed the 
door wide for him had not the young man halted 
on the threshold. There were voices inside the 
room, and one of them had a familiar sound. 

The sight which greeted his eyes made him shut 
the door firmly behind him. Duchess Kitty, still 
wearing the cloak of grey fur and the velvet mittens 
which had kept her warm in the coach, sat in the 
chair which Claudia had once sat in, one little foot 
on the hearth-stone, the other tapping impatiently 
on the hearth-rug. On a table lay the remains of 
a meal, and beside it, balancing himself with one 
large hand among the platters, stood Mr Samuel 
Johnson. It was not the Mr Johnson to whom he 
had bade farewell three weeks ago, but rather the 
distraught usher who had made the midnight raid 
on Cornbury. His dress was the extreme of shab¬ 
biness, his hair was in disorder, his rusty small 
clothes and coarse stockings were splashed with 
mud; and he seemed to be famished, too, for his 
cheeks were hollow, and for all his distress, he 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 239 

could not keep his eyes from straying towards the 
table. 

“I beseech your Grace to remember your common 
womanhood,” he was saying when Alastair’s en¬ 
trance diverted the Duchess’s attention. 

She recognised him, and a look which was almost 
alarm crossed her face. 

“Here enters the first of the conquerors,” she 
cried, and swept him a curtsey. “What is the 
latest news from the seat of war? My woman tells 
me that the Prince is already in Bedfordshire and 
that London is ablaze and King George fled to Hol¬ 
land. Your news, Captain Maclean?” 

“I have none, madam. I have been no nearer 
the Prince’s camp than I am at this moment.” 

Her eyes opened wide. “Faith, you have dal¬ 
lied long in the South. Have you been sick, or is 
Beaufort’s conscience a tender plant? Or did 
you return to Cornbury?” Her face had grown 
stern. 

“I left Cornbury on the day you remember, and 
I have not since seen my lord, your brother.” 

“That is well,” she said, with an air of relief. 
“I ask no further questions lest they embarrass 
you. But you are come opportunely, for you can 
give me counsel. This gentleman,” and she turned 
to Johnson, “has forced his company upon me, and, 
when you arrived, had embarked upon a monstrous 
tale. He bespeaks my pity, so I have composed 
myself to listen.” 

“The gentleman and I are acquainted, and I can 
vouch for his honesty. Nay, madam, I have a fancy 
that his errand is also mine.” 

She looked curiously from one to the other, as 


240 Duchess Kitty on the Road 

Johnson, rolling his head like a marionette, seized 
Alastair’s hand. “It is the mercy of God, sir, that 
you have returned,” the tutor cried. “I have 
missed you sorely, for that house of Brightwell is 
no better than a prison. Its master is aged and 
bedridden and demented, and it is governed by two 
malevolent spinsters. Brightwell! Bridewell is its 
true name. I myself have eaten little and slept 
bare, but that matters nothing. It is my poor lady 
I grieve for. ’Tis true, she has her husband, but 
he is little at home, and is much engrossed with 
affairs. Soon, too, he will ride south with his Prince, 
and Miss Claudia cannot travel with him nor can 
she be left behind in that ill-omened den. She must 
have a woman to befriend her in these rough days, 
and conduct her to Chastlecote or Weston, but she 
has few female friends of her rank and I knew not 
where to turn. But to-day, walking on the high 
road, I saw an equipage and learned that it was 
Her Grace travelling south, and that she would lie 
at this inn. So I ran hither like a Covent-garden 
porter, and have been admitted to her presence, 
though my appearance is not so polite as I could 
have desired.” He bowed to the Duchess, and in 
his clumsiness swept her travelling-mask from the 
table to the floor. 

She looked at him for a little without speaking, 
and then fixed her eyes on Alastair, those large 
childlike eyes which were rarely without a spark of 
impish humour. 

“Your friend,” she said, “has already opened his 
tale to me, but his manner of telling it is not of the 
clearest. Since you say that his errand may be 
yours, I pray you expound it. But be seated, gen- 


241 


. Duchess Kitty on the Eoad 

tlemen both. I have already a crick in my neck 
from looking up to such enormities.” 

Mr Johnson, as if glad of the permission, 
dropped into a chair, but Alastair remained stand¬ 
ing. His legs no longer felt crazy, but they were 
amazingly stiff, and once in a chair he distrusted his 
ability to rise. He stood at the opposite side of the 
hearth to the Duchess, looking down on the elfin 
figure, as pretty as porcelain in the glow of firelight. 

“I do not ask your politics,” he said, “which I 
take to be your husband’s. But you are an honour¬ 
able lady, by the consent of all, and, I can add of 
my own knowledge, a kind one. To you a traitor 
must be doubly repulsive.” 

Her answer was what Claudia Norreys’s had been 
in that very room. 

“You judge rightly, sir. If I thought I could 
betray a friend or a cause I should hang myself 
forthwith to avert the calamity.” 

Alastair bowed. “Mr Johnson has told you of 
this girl, my lady Norreys. She is own sister to you, 
tender and brave and infinitely faithful. Her hus¬ 
band is otherwise. Her husband is a black traitor, 
but she does not know it.” 

Mr Johnson cried out. “I had thought better of 
him, sir. Have you got new evidence?” 

“I have full evidence. News of desperate import 
is sent to him here by another in the South, that 
other being one of the foremost agents of our 
Cause. That news should go forthwith to the 
Prince’s camp. It goes forthwith to the enemy’s.” 

“For what reward?” the Duchess asked. 

“For that reward which is usual to traitors in 
times of civil strife. They induce honest but weak- 


242 Duchess Kitty on the Road 

kneed souls to take a bold step, and then betray 
them to the Government, receiving a share of the 
fines and penalties that ensue. Great fortunes have 
been built that way.” 

“But if the rebellion wins?” 

“Then they are lost, unless indeed they are skilful 
enough to make provision with both sides and to 
bury whichever of the two villainies is unprofitable.” 

“He is a young man,” she said. “He shows a 
shocking precocity in guile. And the poor child 
his wife dreams nothing of this?” 

“Ah, madam,” cried Johnson. “She is the very 
soul and flower of loyalty. If she suspected but a 
tithe of it, her heart would break.” 

“His precocity is remarkable,” said Alastair, “but 
he is not the principal in the business. The prin¬ 
cipal is that other I have mentioned who is in the 
very centre of the Prince’s counsels.” 

She put her hands to her ears. “Do not tell 
me,” she cried. “I will be burdened with no secrets 
that do not concern me. I take it that this other 
has not a wife whom you would have me befriend.” 

“Nevertheless I fear that I must outrage your 
ears, madam. This other is known to you—closely 
allied with you.” 

Her eyes were suddenly bright with anxiety. 

“His name is Mr Nicholas Kyd.” 

Her face showed relief; also incredulity. 

“You are certain? You have proof?” 

“I have long been certain. Before night I will 
have full proof.” 

She fell into a muse. “Kyd—the bluff honest bon 
enfant! The man of the sad old songs and ready 
pathos, who almost makes a Jacobite of me—Kyd 


243 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 

to play the rogue! Faith, His Grace had better 
look into his accounts. What do you want of me, 
Captain Maclean?” 

“Two things, madam. My purpose is to do jus¬ 
tice on rogues, but justice is a cruel thing, and I 
would spare the lady. I want you to carry her 
southward with you, and leave her at Chastlecote 
or Weston, which you please, or carry her to Ames- 
bury. She shall never know her husband’s infamy— 
only that he has gone to the Prince, and when he 
does not return will think him honourably dead.” 

The Duchess nodded. “And the other?” 

“I beg your presence when Mr Kyd is confounded. 
He is on his way to Brightwell and this night will 
sleep there. His errand in the West is now done, 
and to-morrow, as I read it, he descends into Not¬ 
tinghamshire to the Government headquarters to 
receive his reward. Therefore he will have papers 
with him, and in those papers I look for my proof. 
If they fail, I have other sources.” 

“And if he is found guilty, what punishment?” 

Alastair shrugged his shoulders. “That is not 
for me. Both he and Norreys go bound to the 
Prince.” 

She brooded with her chin on her hand. Then 
she stood up, laughing. 

“I consent. ’Twill be better than a play. But 
how will you set the stage?” 

“I go to Brightwell presently, and shall force 
admission. My lady Norreys will keep her cham¬ 
ber, while in another part of the house we deal with 
grimmer business. I nominate you of our court of 
justice. See, we will fix an hour. Order your 
coach for six, and you will be at Brightwell by 


244 


Duchess Kitty on the Road 

seven. By that time the house will be ours, and we 
shall be waiting to receive you. You will bring Mr 
Johnson with you, and after that you can comfort 
the lady.” 

She nodded. “I will come masked,” said she, 
“and I do swear that I will not fail you or betray 
you—by the graves of Durrisdeer I swear it, the 
ancient Douglas oath. Have you men enough? I 
can lend you two stout fellows.” 

“Your Grace has forgotten that you are a Whig,” 
said Alastair, laughing. 

“I have forgotten all save that I am trysted to 
a merry evening,” she cried. 

• •••••• 

When Alastair returned to his attic he found the 
Spainneach. 

“Your Kyd is nearing port,” he said. “I have 
word that he slept at Blakeley and dined early at 
Little Laning. In two hours or less he will be at 
Brightwell.” 

“And the Spoonbills?” 

“Await us there. Haste you, Sir Sandy, if you 
would arrive before your guest.” 


Chapter XV 


BIDS FAREWELL TO A SCOTS LAIRD 

r HE night was mild and dark, and the high 
road which the two men followed was defined 
only by the faint glimmer of the rain-pools that lay 
in every rut. The smell of wet earth was in their 
nostrils, and the noise of brimming streams in their 
ears, and to Alastair, with a sword at his side again, 
the world was transformed. All might yet be 
saved for the Cause, and in twelve hours he should 
see the Prince; the thought comforted him, but it 
was not the main tenant of his mind. For a 
woman’s face had lodged there like an obsession in 
sleep; he saw Claudia’s eyes change from laughter 
to tragedy and back again to laughter, he heard her 
tongue stumble musically among greetings, he fan¬ 
cied he saw—nay, it was beyond doubt—her face 
some day light up for him, as a girl’s lights up for 
her lover. . . . Across the pleasant dream passed 
the shadow of a high coat-collar and a long sharp 
nose. He shivered, remembering the ugly business 
before him. 

“Where are the Spoonbills?” he asked. 

“By now they will be close around Brightwell, 
ready to run to my whistle.” 

“Are they armed?” 

“With staves only. We are men of peace.” 

“Suppose Norreys has a troop of Kingston’s 

Horse for garrison. Or even that he and Kyd and 

245 


246 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

a servant or two have pistols. We are too evenly 
matched to administer justice in comfort.” 

“Then we must use our wits,” was the answer. 
“But a file or two of your Highland muskets would 
not be unwelcome.” 

The wish was fulfilled even as it was uttered. As 
they swung round a corner of road, half a mile from 
Brightwell gates, they had to rein in their horses 
hard to avoid a collision with a body of mounted 
men. These were halted in a cluster, while by the 
light of a lantern their leader made shift to examine 
a scrap of paper. The sudden irruption set all the 
beasts plunging, and the lantern went out in the con¬ 
fusion, but not before Alastair had caught sight of 
him who had held it. 

“God’s mercy!” he cried. “Charles Hay! Is it 
Tinnis himself?” 

“You have my name,” a voice answered, “and 
a tongue I have heard before.” 

Alastair laughed happily. “Indeed you have 
heard it before, Mr Charlie. In quarters and on 
parade, and at many a merry supper in the Rue 
Margot. Your superior officer has a claim upon 
you.” 

The lantern, being now relit, revealed a tall young 
man with twenty troopers at his back, most of them 
large raw lads who were not long from the plough 
tail. The leader’s face was flushed with pleasure. 
“Where in God’s name have you been lurking, my 
dear sir,” he cried. “I have looked for you at 
every bivouac, for I longed to clap eyes again on a 
soldier of Lee’s, after so much undisciplined rabble.” 

“The story will keep, Charles, and meantime I 
claim a service. You are on patrol?” 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 247 

“A patrol of Elcho’s ordered to feel our way 
down this valley and report at Derby town by 
breakfast. ’Tis a cursed difficult affair riding these 
hills when there is no moon.” 

“You have time and to spare before morn. Turn 
aside with me here for a matter of two hours. You 
shall have a good supper to cheer you, and will do 
your Prince a distinguished service. I pledge my 
word for it.” 

“Lead on,” said Mr Hay. “I am back in Lee’s 
again, and take my orders from Captain Maclean.” 

He cried to his men, and the troop wheeled be¬ 
hind him, where he rode with Alastair and the 
Spainneach. “Now tell me the ploy,” he said. “It 
should be a high matter to keep you away from 
Derby this night, where they say the fountains are 
to run claret.” 

“We go to do justice on a traitor,” said Alastair, 
and told him the main lines of the story. Mr Hay 
whistled long and loud. 

“You want us to escort the gentleman to Beel¬ 
zebub’s bosom,” he asked. 

“I want you to escort him to the Prince.” 

“Not the slightest use, I do assure you. His 
Highness has a singular passion for gentry of that 
persuasion. Yesterday Lord George’s force brought 
in a black-hearted miscreant, by the name of Weir, 
caught red-handed no less, and a fellow we had 
been longing for months to get our irons on. In¬ 
stead of a tow or a bullet he gets a hand-shake from 
His Highness, and is bowed out of the camp with 
‘Erring brother, go and sin no more.’ Too much 
damned magnanimity, say I, and it’s not like we’ll 
get much of it back from Cumberland. Take my 


248 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

advice, and hang him from the nearest oak, and then 
apologise to His Highness for being in too much of 
a loyal hurry.” 

The gates of Brightwell to Alastair’s surprise 
stood open, and in the faint light from a shuttered 
window of the lodge it seemed as if there had been 
much traffic. “Where are your Spoonbills?” he 
asked the Spainneach. 

“I do not know. In furze bush and broom bush 
and hazel thicket. But when I whistle, in ten sec¬ 
onds they will be the door of Brightwell.” 

The troopers were left in the dark of the paved 
court, with certain instructions. Accompanied by 
the Spainneach, Mr Hay and Mr Hay’s troop 
sergeant, Alastair rode forward to the great door, 
and pulled the massive bell-rope. A tinkle sounded 
inside at an immense distance, and almost at the 
same moment the door was opened. There was a 
light within which revealed the ancient butler. 

“We have business with Sir John Norreys.” 

“Sir John awaits you,” said the man. “But are 
there not others with you, sir?” 

So the conspirators had summoned their friends, 
doubtless a troop of Kingston’s Horse from down 
the water. A thought struck him. 

“We are also appointed to meet a Scotch gentle¬ 
man, Mr Kyd,” he said. 

“Mr Kyd arrived some minutes ago,” was the 
answer, “and is now repairing his toilet after his 
journey. Will you be pleased to enter?” 

Alastair spoke in French to Mr Hay, who gave 
an order to his troop sergeant, who took the horses 
and fell back; and the three men passed through 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 249 

the outer portals into the gaunt gloomy hall, in 
which Alastair had shivered on his first visit. To¬ 
night there was a change. A huge fire of logs 
roared up the chimney, and from a door ajar came 
a glimpse of firelight in another room, and the 
corner of a laden table. Miserly Brightwell was 
holding revel that night. 

Hay flung himself on a settle and toasted his 
boots. 

“Comfort,” he cried, “after bleak and miry 
moors, and I have a glimpse of the supper you 
promised me. Sim Linton will hold the fort against 
any yokels on cart-horses that try to interrupt us. 
But what has become of your swarthy friend?” 

The Spainneach had disappeared, and the two 
were alone. Kyd had his papers here, thought Alas¬ 
tair, and it were well to make certain of them first. 
Evidence should be collected before the court sat. 
It would seem that the staging of the play was in 
other hands than his, and what had been proposed 
as a feast would by an irony of destiny be turned 
into mourning. . . . And then he realised with a 
shock that Claudia was beneath this roof, an un¬ 
witting, unsuspecting dove in a nest of ravens. . . . 
But in a little the Duchess Kitty would be with her 
and she would be safe in Oxfordshire, and some day 
he would journey there. . . . 

A figure was standing at the foot of the great 
staircase, a splendid figure, with a nobly laced coat 
and such ruffles as were rarely seen outside St 
James’s. It wore a sword, but its carriage was not 
that of a soldier. It advanced into the circle of the 
firelight, and, seeing it was observed, it bowed and 


250 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

smiled graciously. Its face was that of a young 
man, with a long sharp nose. 

“I bid you welcome, gentlemen,” it began, and 
then its eyes rested on Alastair. An instant and 
extreme terror flooded its face. It stopped abruptly, 
stumbled a step and then turned and ran. 

Alastair was after the man like an arrow, but his 
feet slipped on the stone floor, and ere he had re¬ 
covered himself Norreys had disappeared in the 
corridor which led to the back regions of the house. 
It was in gloom, but a lamp burned at the far end, 
and to this Alastair directed himself. But the place 
was a cul-de-sac, and he had to turn back and find 
a side-passage. The first led him into cellars, the 
second into the kitchen, where there seemed to be a 
strange to-do, but no sign of Norreys. At last he 
found the way to the back-yard, and rushed through 
an open door into a storm of rain. Surely the 
Spoonbills must have prevented the man’s escape. 
But the Spoonbills had been nodding on that side 
of the house, for it was certain that Norreys had 
gone. No doubt he had kept a horse always ready 
saddled, and the sound of hooves could be heard 
growing faint on the turf of the park. Hatless and 
cloakless, Sir John had fled to his Whig friends in 
Nottinghamshire to claim reward and sanctuary. 

Alastair’s first impulse was there and then to ride 
the man down, with Hay’s troopers and the Spoon¬ 
bills alike on his trail. His hatred of him had flared 
up furiously, when the mean face in the firelight 
had broken in on his thoughts of Claudia. The 
fellow must be brought to justice, or the castle of 
fancy he had been building would tumble. But it 
was clear that Kyd must first be dealt with, and, 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 251 

bitterly unwilling, he allowed his inclinations to give 
place to his duty. 

Kyd’s papers! The thought struck him that 
Norreys might have carried them off, and sent him 
hurrying along the passages to the hall, where Mr 
Hay was still basking like a cat in the warmth. 
There, too, stood the Spainneach, looking like a 
panther in his lean dark shadowy grace. 

“Mr Kyd is in his chamber, cleansing himself of 
the stains of travel and humming merrily. I mis¬ 
trust the servants, Sir Sandy, so I have replaced 
them by our own folk. Where are the said servants, 
you ask? Shut up in various corners, very scared 
and docile. Likewise I have discovered Mr Kyd’s 
travelling-bag. It is in strange wardenship. Come 
and see.” 

The man, stepping lightly, led the way up a broad 
shallow staircase, to a room of which he noiselessly 
opened the door. The hospitable warmth down¬ 
stairs had not penetrated to that cold chamber, for 
the air of it was like a tomb. On a table stood a 
saddle-bag from which the contents had been spilled, 
and over these contents hung the two grey women 
whom Alastair had seen on his earlier visit. They 
caressed the papers as if they were misers fumbling 
banknotes, one lean and hawk-beaked, the other of 
a dropsical fatness. 

“Sir Robert Leatham—fifty men and five hun¬ 
dred pounds—good pickings in that, sister. That 
makes the roll of Hereford complete. The fines 
will not be less than half a million pounds, and at 
two pounds per centum that is a sum of ten thou¬ 
sand—half to cousin John and half to him we know 


252 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

The other was fingering the rings on a tally- 
stick. 

“He favours you, Caroline, and between you 
there will be a rare fortune. Cousin Johnnie has 
promised me Brightwell, when our father leaves us, 
and I look to you to assist the conveyance. That 
is my price, remember. If you play me false, I will 
scratch your eyes out and curse him till he rots. 
Ay, and I will tell on him to that puling miss in the 
Green Chamber. . . . Does Johnnie sup to-night?” 

“Ay, and departs early, for he is bound for the 
Duke of Richmond, but he we know of stays till the 
Duke comes hither. He’s the great man, sister, and 
Johnnie but a boy. A clever dutiful boy, to be sure, 
with an old head on his young shoulders. I’ll wager 
that when they both come to die there will be little 
difference between the fortunes of Sir John Norreys 
of Weston and Sir Robert Grosvenor of Eaton. 
The pity of it that he has set his heart on that baby¬ 
faced wench.” 

“She brought him a fine estate, Caroline.” 

“Pish! He thinks less of the good acres than 
her pink cheeks. I could scratch them till the bones 
were bare. . . . Read the Shropshire roll again, 
sister. How deep is Henry Talbot?” 

The two witches, obscene, malevolent, furtive, 
bent over the papers as over a bubbling cauldron. 
Alastair stepped forward, choking down a strong 
disgust. 

“I must beg your permission to remove these 
papers, mesdames. They are required for the con¬ 
ference to which Mr Kyd will presently descend.” 

The women huddled together, stretching each an 
arm over the papers. 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 253 

“Mr Kyd gave them into our charge,” they said 
in one voice. 

“He releases you from that charge,” said Alas- 
tair. “Permit me, madam,” and he laid a hand on 
the saddle-bag and began to re-fill it. 

The women would have resisted had not the 
Spainneach stepped behind them and murmured 
something into the lean one’s ear. Whatever it 
was, it caused her to draw back her protecting arm 
and bid her sister do likewise. Alastair bundled 
the papers into the bag, and left the room followed 
by two pairs of wolfish eyes. The Spainneach 
locked the door, and left the key on the outside. 
“Best keep these wild cats fast in their cave,” he 
observed. “There might have been a tussle over 
that treasure-trove, had I not remembered some¬ 
thing I had heard of those grey ones long ago. 
Now I go to find the servant Edom.” 

“When Kyd leaves his room see that the hall is 
empty. I will await him in the dining-room. When 
I ring, do you and Hay enter and join us. Make 
Edom wait at the meal with the servants you have 
provided.” 

“It is a noble meal which is now cooking,” said 
the Spainneach. “Even the miserly will spend 
themselves on a high occasion. It is the habit of 
Madam Norreys to sup in her room, and that room 
is at the far end of the house from us. She will not 
be disturbed if we grow merry.” 

Alastair sat himself by the fire in the great 
vaulted dining-room and tore open the saddle-bag. 
He ran hastily through the papers, for he was look¬ 
ing for what he knew to be there, and it did not 
take him long to discard the irrelevant. Once or 


254 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

twice, as he found what he hoped and yet feared to 
find, an exclamation was wrung from him. He 
selected several documents and placed them in his 
breast, and re-read others with set tight lips and a 
knotted forehead. Then he looked into the fire and 
mused with a grim face. . . . 

Through the open door came the sound of a step 
on the paved floor of the hall, a heavy, assured, 
leisurely step. The young man kicked the saddle¬ 
bag under the table and stood erect by the hearth 
with an odd smile on his face. Grimness had left 
it, and a wry courtsey remained. 

The laird of Greyhouses was a gallant sight. 
Gone were the splashed boots and muddy breeches, 
and all that might recall the wintry roads. He was 
dressed as on that night at Cornbury when he had 
kept Sir Christopher Lacy company—in flowered 
waistcoat, and plum-coloured coat, and canary stock¬ 
ings, and buckled shoes that shone like well-water. 
He was humming a little tune as he entered, his 
eye bright and content, his heavy figure tautened 
and refined by hard travelling, his shapely face rosy 
as a winter’s eve. It was the entrance of a great 
man to a company where he expects to be acclaimed, 
for there was self-consciousness in the primness of 
his mouth. He lifted his genial eyes and saw Alas- 
tair. 

The man was a superb actor, for though Alastair 
was watching him like a hawk he could see no start 
of surprise, no flicker of disappointment or fear. 

“Captain Maclean, upon my soul!” he cried. 
“And who would have expected it? Man, I did 
not know you were acquaint here. But ’tis a 
joyful meeting, my dear sir, and I’m felix oppor- 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 255 

tunitate coenae the day.” He held out a cordial 
hand, which the young man left unnoticed. 

“I am happy to repay hospitality,” he said. “You 
welcomed me some weeks back at a wayside inn, and 
it is my turn now to provide the entertainment. 
Let us sit down to supper, Mr. Kyd. There are 
other guests,” and he stretched a hand to the bell- 
rope. 

“I confess I was expecting a wheen more,” said 
Mr. Kyd, and there was just the faintest quiver of 
his eyelids. 

“Sir John Norreys begged to be excused. He 
was summoned into Nottinghamshire somewhat 
suddenly—so suddenly that I fear he will take a 
catarrh, for he has forgotten his hat and cloak. 
The ladies of the house are detained in their cham¬ 
ber, and the master, as we know, has been bed¬ 
ridden these many years. But there are others to 
take their place.” Again he stretched out his hand, 
but Kyd interrupted him. 

“What is the meaning of it?” he asked in a low 
voice. “What does this pleasantry betoken, Cap¬ 
tain Maclean?” 

“It betokens that Menelaus has come to Phaeacia 
to see his old crony Alcinous. The two will have 
much to say to each other, but they will regret that 
Achilles is not here to make it a three-handed 
crack.” 

The mention of Achilles seemed to perturb the 
other. He narrowed his eyes, and into them came 
the shadow of that look which Alastair had sur¬ 
prised on the evening at the inn. Then he stepped 
to the table, filled a glass of claret and drank it off, 
while Alastair rang the bell. 


256 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

The Spainneach entered with Hay on his heels. 
Kyd regarded them with puzzled eyes, as if striving 
to recapture a memory. 

“I present to you Mr Charles Hay of Tinnis,” 
said Alastair, “who commands a troop in His High¬ 
ness’s Lowland Horse. The other gentleman is of 
the Nameless Clan. Sit you down, sirs.” 

Kyd obeyed, but his eyes were not on the food 
and wine, for he was thinking hard. He had a 
stout heart and had often faced peril, so he forced 
his mind to consider the situation’s possibilities, 
when a weaker man would have been a-flutter. 
Would the horsemen he had asked for from Kings¬ 
ton arrive in time?—that was the main point. Be¬ 
yond doubt they would, and meantime he would con¬ 
fuse this Highland jackanapes, who seemed to have 
stumbled on some damaging truths. But the ap¬ 
pearance of Alastair, whom he had utterly written 
off from his list of obstacles, worried him in spite 
of all his robust philosophy. He made pretence to 
eat, but he only crumbled his bread and toyed with 
his meat, though he drank claret thirstily. The 
servants who moved about the room, too, perturbed 
him. There was his own man Edom acting as but¬ 
ler, but the others were strange folk, outlandishly 
dressed and with dark secret faces, and one, a 
trooper of Hay’s, had a belt with pistols round his 
middle and that at his shoulder which might be a 
white cockade. 

Alastair read his thoughts. 

“I fear, sir, that your entertainment is not what 
you hoped, but I have done my best to provide a 
recompense. Since his Grace of Kingston could not 
send a garrison, I have brought Mr Hay’s Scots. 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 257 

Since Sir John Norreys is summoned elsewhere, I 
have provided Mr Hay in his stead. And since the 
ladies upstairs cannot honour us, I have bidden 
another lady, who will shortly arrive.” 

The news seemed to move Kyd to action. Hope 
from Kingston’s Horse was over, and the only 
chance lay in carrying matters with a high hand, 
and bluffing his opponent who must be largely in the 
dark. His plans had been too deep-laid to be dis¬ 
covered by a casual moss-trooper. 

“Most considerate, I’m sure,” he said. “But 
let’s have an end of these riddles. I come here to 
a well-kenned house, expecting to meet an old 
friend, and find him mysteriously departed, and you 
in his place talking like an oracle. I venture to 
observe that it’s strange conduct between gentlemen 
of the same nation. What’s the meaning of it, 
sir?” He pushed back his chair, and looked 
squarely at the young man. 

“The meaning of it is that Judas has come to 
judgment.” 

Kyd laughed, with an excellent semblance of 
mirth, and indeed he felt relieved. This was a 
mere random general charge, for which he could 
readily invent a defence. “Oh, sits the wind that 
airt? It’s most extraordinary the way we of the 
honest party harbour suspicions. I’ve done it 
myself many’s the time. Weel-a-weel, if I’ve to 
thole my assize, so be it. I’ve a quiet conscience 
and a good answer to any charge. But who is to 
sit in judgment?” 

The man’s composure was restored. He filled 
himself a glass of claret, held it to the light, and 
savoured its bouquet before he sipped. 


258 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

As if in answer to his question the door opened 
to admit two newcomers. One was a small lady, 
with a black silk mask from her brow to her lips, 
so that no part of her face was visible. A velvet 
hood covered her hair, and her dress w T as hidden 
from sight by a long travelling-robe of fur. Behind 
her shambled a tall man, whose big hands strayed 
nervously to his dusty cravat and the threadbare 
lapels of his coat. 

“Here is your judge,” said Alastair. “Madam, 
will you sit in the seat of justice?” 

He pulled forward a high-backed Restoration 
chair, and placed before it a footstool. Solemnly 
like a cardinal in conclave the little lady seated 
herself. 

“Who is the prisoner?” she asked. “And what 
bill does the Prince’s attorney present against 
him ?” 

The servants had moved to the back of the room, 
and stood in the shadow like guards at attention. 
By a strange chance the place seemed to have bor¬ 
rowed the similitude of a court—Kyd at one end of 
a table with the guards behind him, Mr Johnson 
like a justice’s clerk sprawling beside the lady’s 
chair. 

“His name, madam,” said Alastair, “is Nicholas 
Kyd of Greyhouses in the Merse, the principle doer 
of his Grace of Queensberry, and likewise a noted 
Jacobite and a member of His Highness’s Council.” 

“And the charge?” 

“That this Nicholas Kyd has for many months 
betrayed the secrets of his master, and while pro¬ 
fessing to work for the Cause has striven to defeat 
it by withholding vital information. Further, that 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 259 

the same Nicholas Kyd has sought for his own gain 
to bring about the ruin of divers honest gentlemen, 
by inducing them to pledge their support to His 
Highness and then handing such pledges to King 
George’s Government.” 

“Heard you ever such havers?” said Kyd bois¬ 
terously. This was what he had hoped for, a wild 
general accusation, the same he had heard brought 
against Balhaldy and Traquair and a dozen others, 
but never substantiated. “You’ll have a difficulty 
in proving your case, Mr Attorney.” 

Then Alastair told his tale from that hour when 
in the ale-house he met Kyd. He told of Kyd’s 
advice to go by Flambury and his troubles there, of 
the message given him in error, of Edom and his 
mission, of Sir John Norreys and his suspected 
doings, of his own kidnapping and imprisonment 
and the confession of Ben the Gypsy in the moor¬ 
land farm. 

“Your proofs, sir,” said the judge. 

“They are here,” he replied, and drew from his 
breast a sheaf of papers. “There, madam, is the 
full account of the Duke of Beaufort’s purpose in 
Wales, written out and inscribed to the Duke of 
Kingston, for transmission to Mr Pelham. There 
you have another document narrating conversations 
with the trusting Jacobites of the Marches. There 
you have a letter from Beaufort to his Prince, 
which would appear from its superscription to be 
directed afresh to the Duke of Cumberland.” 

The lady looked at the papers shown her, knitted 
her brows and returned them. She glanced at Kyd, 
whose face was set in a mask which he strove to 
make impassive. 


260 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

“Proceed with your second and graver charge, 
sir,” she said. 

Alastair told of his conversation with General 
Oglethorpe and of Kyd’s visit to the General’s 
room at midnight. He told of the two hags up¬ 
stairs who were in partnership. “And for proof,” 
he cried, “here are the rolls of three counties taken 
from the man’s saddle-bags, giving a list of the gen¬ 
tlemen who are liable to fines for their political 
action, and noting the shares which will come to 
each of the conspirators. Do you require further 
evidence, madam?” 

The room had grown very still, and no one of 
the company stirred, till Kyd brought his fist down 
on the table. His face had whitened. 

“What says the prisoner?” the lady asked. 

“Lies, madam, devilish lies—and these papers a 
common forgery. Some enemy—and God knows I 
have many—has put them in my baggage.” 

“You are acquainted with the handwriting, 
madam?” Alastair asked. 

She studied the papers again. “I have seen it 
a thousand times. It is a well-formed and capable 
style, clerkly and yet gentlemanlike. Nay, there 
can be no doubt. His hand wrote these lists and 
superscriptions.” 

Kyd’s face from pallor flushed scarlet. “God’s 
curse, but am I to have my fame ruined by a play¬ 
acting wench! What daftness is this? What 
knows this hussy of my hand of write?” 

“Do you deny the authorship, sir?” Alastair 
asked. 

The man had lost his temper. “I deny and af¬ 
firm nothing before a court that has no sort of com- 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 261 

petence. I will answer to the Prince, when he calls 
for an answer, and I can promise a certain gentle¬ 
man his kail through the reek on that day.” 

“I should be happy to be proved in error. But 
if the papers should happen to be genuine you will 
admit, sir, that they bear an ugly complexion.” 

“I’ll admit nothing except that you’re a bonny 
friend to lippen so readily to a clumsy fabrication. 
Ay, and you’ve the damned insolence to bring in a 
baggage from the roads to testify to my hand of 
write. You’ll have to answer to me for that, my 
man.” 

There was a low laugh from the mask. He had 
not recognised her, partly because of his discompo¬ 
sure and fear and partly because he had never 
dreamed of her presence in that country-side. 
When, therefore, she plucked the silk from her 
face and looked sternly down on him, he seemed 
suddenly to collapse like a pricked bladder. His 
stiff jaw dropped, his eyes stared, he made as if to 
speak and only stammered. 

“Your face condemns you, sir,” she said gravely. 
“I have seen your writing too often to mistake it, 
and I have lived long enough in the world to rec¬ 
ognise the sudden confusion of crime in a man’s 
eyes. I condemn you, sir, as guilty on both charges, 
and fouler and shamefuller were never proven.” 

Kyd’s defence was broken; but there was a reso¬ 
lute impudence in the man which made him still 
show fight. He looked obstinately at the others, 
and attempted a laugh; then at the Duchess, with 
an effrontery as of a fellow-conspirator. 

“It seems we’re both in an ugly place,” he said. 
“You ken my secret, madam, which I had meant to 


262 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

impart to you when an occasion offered. Here’s 
the two of us honest folks at the mercy of the 
wild Jacobites and wishing sore that the Duke of 
Kingston would make better speed up the water.” 

“That is not my wish,” she said, with stony eyes. 

It was those eyes which finally unnerved him. 

“But, madam,” he cried, “your Grace—you are 
of the Government party, the party I have served— 
I have letters from Mr Pelham . . . you winna 
suffer the rebels to take vengeance on me for loyalty 
to King George.” 

“I am a Whig,” said she, “and will not condemn 
you for political conduct, base though I must judge 
it. The Prince’s Attorney must hale you to another 
court. You will take him to your master—” this 
to Alastair—“and leave him to that tribunal.” 

“With your assent, madam, I do not ask for 
judgment on the first charge, and I do not propose 
that he should go to the Prince. The penalty for 
his treason is death, and I am unwilling to saddle 
His Highness before he has won his throne with 
the duty of putting an end to a rascal.” 

She nodded. “I think you are wise, sir. But the 
second charge is the more heinous, for it offends 
not against the law of men’s honour, but the law of 
human kindness and the law of God. There I find 
him the chief of sinners. What penalty do you ask 
for?” 

“I ask that your Grace pronounce sentence of 
perpetual exile.” 

“But where—and how?” 

“It matters not, so long as it is forth of Britain.” 

“But you cannot be eternally watching the ports.” 

“Nay, but he will not return. There is a brother- 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 263 

hood which has already aided me—your Grace 
knows nothing of them, but they know everything 
of your Grace. It is the brotherhood of Old Eng¬ 
land, and is sure as the judgment of God. To that 
charge we will commit him. They will see him 
forth of England, and they will make certain that 
he does not return.” 

Kyd’s face had lightened, as if he saw a prospect 
of avoiding the full rigours of the sentence. The 
Duchess marked it and frowned, but he misread her 
mood, which he thought one of displeasure at Alas- 
tair’s plan. He adopted an air of humble can¬ 
dour. 

“Hear me, your Grace,” he implored. “It’s a 
queer story mine, but a juster than you think. I’m 
not claiming to be a perfect character, and I’m not 
denying that I take a canny bit profit when I find 
it, like an eident body. The honest truth is that I 
don’t care a plack for politics one side or the other, 
and it’s nothing to me which king sits on the throne. 
My job’s to be a trusty servant of His Grace, and 
no man can say that I’m not zealous in that cause. 
Ay, and there’s another cause I’m sworn to, and 
that’s Scotland. I’m like auld Lockhart o’ Carn- 
wath—my heart can hold just the one land at a 
time. I call God Almighty to witness that I never 
did ill to a kindly Scot, and if I’ve laboured to put 
a spoke in the Chevalier’s coach-wheels, it’s because 
him and his wild caterans are like to play hell with 
my puir auld country. Show me what is best for 
Scotland, and Nicholas Kyd will spend his last 
bodle and shed his last drop of blood to com¬ 
pass it.” 

There was an odd earnestness, even a note of 


264 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 

honesty, in the man’s appeal, but it found no ac¬ 
ceptance. The lady shivered. 

“If you can get him abroad, sir,” she addressed 
Alastair, and her voice was hard as granite, “I think 
I can promise you that he will not return. My arm 
is a weak woman’s, but it strikes far. His services 
will be soon forgotten by Mr Pelham, but Kitty of 
Queensberry does not forget his offences. Though 
I live for fifty years more, I will make it my con¬ 
stant business to keep the rogue in exile.” 

The man seemed to meditate. Doubtless he re¬ 
flected that even the malice of a great lady could 
not keep him for ever out of the country. She 
might die, or her husband lose his power, and poli¬ 
tics would be politics to a Whig Government. One 
of those who looked on divined his thoughts, for a 
soft voice spoke. 

“I do not think that Greyhouses will ever again 
be a pleasant habitation for the gentleman. Has 
he forgotten the case of the laird of Champer- 
toun?” 

Kyd started violently. 

“Or the goodman of Heriotside?” The voice 
was gentle and soothing, but it seemed to wake 
acute terror in one hearer. 

“Men die and their memories, but when all of us 
are dust the Bog-blitters will still cry on Lammer- 
muir. I think that Mr Kyd has heard them before 
at Greyhouses. He will not desire to hear them 
again.” 

The Spainneach had risen and stood beside Kyd, 
and from the back of the room two of the Spoon¬ 
bills advanced like guardian shadows. The big man 
in the rich clothes had shrunk to a shapeless bundle 


Bids Farewell to a Scots Baird 265 

in the chair, his face grey and his eyes hot and 
tragic. “Not that,” he cried, “don’t banish me 
from my native land. I’ll go anywhere you please 
in the bounds o’ Scotland—to St Kilda, like Lady 
Grange, or to the wildest Hielands, but let me feel 
that I’m in my own country. I tell you my heart’s 
buried aneath Scots heather. I’ll die if you twine 
the Lammermuirs and me. Anything you like, my 
lady, but let me bide at home.” 

He found only cold eyes and silence. Then he 
seemed to brace himself to self-command. His face 
was turned to the Duchess, and he sat up in his 
chair, settled his cravat, and with a shaking hand 
poured himself a glass of wine. His air was now 
ingratiating and sentimental, and he wiped a tear 
from his eye. 

“Nos patriae fines et dulcia liqnimus arva,” he 
said. “I’ll have to comfort myself with philosophy, 
for man’s life is more howes than heights. Heigho, 
but I’ll miss Scotland. I’m like the old ballad: 

“Happy the craw 
That biggs i’ the Totten Shaw 
And drinks o' the Water of Dye, 

For nae mair may I.” 

The words, the tone, the broken air gave to Alas- 
tair a moment of compunction. But in Mr John¬ 
son they roused another feeling. Half raising him¬ 
self from his chair, he shook his fist at the speaker. 

“Sir,” he cried, “you are worse than a rogue, you 
are a canting rogue. You would have driven twenty 
honest men into unmerited exile by your infamies 
and had no pity on them, but you crave pity for 


266 Bids Farewell to a Scots Laird 


yourself when you are justly banished. I have sym¬ 
pathy with many kinds of rascal, but none with 
yours. Your crimes are the greater because you 
pretend to sensibility. With you, sir, patriotism is 
the last refuge of the scoundrel.” 

Alastair picked the saddle-bag from below the 
table, and emptied its remaining contents in the fire. 

“Except what I keep for His Highness’s eye, let 
ashes be the fate of this treason. There is your 
baggage, sir. You may want it in your long 
journey.” 

The hand that lifted it was Edom’s. 

“I’ll get the other pockmantie ready, sir,” he said 
to Kyd in the grave tone of a good servant. “Your 
horse is no just in the best fettle for the road, but 
I ride lichter nor you, and ye can take mine.” 

“But you do not propose to continue in his 
service?” Alastair cried in astonishment. “See, 
man, you have saved my life, and I will take charge 
of your fortunes.” 

Edom halted at the door. “I thank ye, sir, for 
your guidwill. But I was born at Greyhouses, and 
my faither and his faither afore him served the 
family. It’s no a sma’ thing like poalitics that’ll gar 
a Kyd and a Lowrie take different roads.” 


Chapter XVI 

BIDS FAREWELL TO AN ENGLISH LADY 


7~\UCHESS KITTY descended from her chair of 
justice and came to the fireside, where she let 
her furs slip from her and stood, a figure of white 
porcelain, warming her feet at the blaze. 

“There was some word of a lady,” she said. 

Johnson, too, had risen, and though the man’s 
cheeks were gaunt with hunger he had no eye for the 
food on the table. His mind seemed to be in travail 
with difficult thoughts. 

“The lady, madam,” he groaned. “She is in her 
chamber, unsuspecting. Her husband should be 
here also. He may enter at any moment.” 

“He has fled,” said Alastair. “Fled, as I take it, 
to the Whig Dukes for his reward. The man is 
revealed at last, and his wife must disown him or 
be tainted by his guilt.” 

The news seemed to affect Johnson painfully. He 
cast himself into a chair, which creaked under his 
weight, and covered his eyes with his hands. 

“Why in God’s name did you suffer it?” he asked 
fiercely of Alastair. “I had another plan. ... I 
would have brought the dog to repentance.” 

“I will yet bring him to justice,” said Alastair 
grimly. “I have a forewarning of it, and to-morrow 
or next week or next year he will stand up before my 
sword.” 

The words gave no comfort to Johnson. He 

267 


268 Bids Farewell to an English Lady 

rolled his melancholy eyes and groaned again. 
“ ’Twill break her heart,” he lamented. “She will 
know of his infamy—it cannot be hid from her. 
. . . Oh, why, why!” 

Alastair spoke to the Duchess. “You will tell 
Lady Norreys that her husband has gone to the 
Prince. No more. I will make certain that he does 
not return to Weston, though I have to drag him 
with my own hands out of Cumberland’s closet. . . . 
Forgive me, madam, if I appear to command, but 
this is a tangled matter. Pray take her with you to 
Amesbury, and keep her out of Oxfordshire, till I 
send word that it is safe. She must not go to Wes¬ 
ton or Chastlecote till she has the news of his death. 
I will contrive that he die, and ’tis for you to con¬ 
trive that she thinks his death a hero’s.” 

The Duchess mused. “You are a singular pair of 
gentlemen, and wondrous tender to the child’s feel¬ 
ings. I can see you are both in love with her. 
Prithee lead me at once to this enchainer of hearts.” 

The Spainneach’s face appeared in the doorway, 
and his hand beckoned to Alastair. 

“My lady’s woman has descended and is distracted 
by the sight of strange servants. It seems her mis¬ 
tress desires Sir John’s company, which was promised 
for this hour, and the maid will not return without 
a clear answer.” 

“Say that he is detained,” said Alastair, “and add 
that the Duchess of Queensberry begs the lady’s 
permission to wait upon her.” 

He turned to the two at the fireplace. “Madam, 
’tis time for your mission of charity.” 

“Repeat me my lesson,” she said, standing before 
him as demure as a schoolgirl. 


Bids Farewell to an English Lady 269 

“You will inform the lady that Sir John Norreys 
has been summoned in great haste to join his Prince, 
and has left incontinent, trusting to her loyal heart 
to condone his seeming heartlessness. Say that he 
will find means to keep her informed of his welfare. 
Then press her to travel southward with you, point¬ 
ing out to her that the war moves southward and 
she will be travelling the same way as Sir John.” 

“ ’Tis a parcel of lies,” said the Duchess, “and I 
am a poor dissembler.” 

Alastair shrugged his shoulders. “The cause is 
good and your Grace is a finished actress, when you 
please.” 

“But is it not cruel kindness?” she asked. “Were 

it not better that she should know the truth of her 

husband, that she might grieve the less when she 

has news of his end, which I see writ plain in your 
* 

eyes, sir: 

Johnson broke in. “A thousand times no, madam. 
If she learns that her trust has been ill placed, her 
heart will break. She can bear sorrow but not 
shame. Believe me, I have studied that noble 
lady.” 

“So be it. Have the goodness, Captain Maclean, 
to escort me to this paragon.” 

Alastair gave her his arm, and, instructed by 
Johnson—who followed in the wake—conducted the 
Duchess up the first flight of the staircase to a broad 
gallery from which the main bedrooms opened. At 
the end, where v/ere Claudia’s rooms, the maid, Mrs. 
Peckover, stood with a lighted candle to receive 
them. 

But suddenly they halted and stood motionless, 
listening. A voice was singing, the voice which had 


270 Bids Farewell to an English Lady 

sung “Diana” at the Sleeping Deer. The door must 
have been ajar, for the song rose clear in the corri¬ 
dor, sung low but with such a tension of feeling that 
every word and bar seemed to vibrate in the air. 
The Duchess, clinging to Alastair’s arm, stood rigid 
as a statue. “O Love,” the voice sang— 

“O Love, they wrong thee much 
That say thy sweet is bitter, 

When thy rich fruit is such 
As nothing can be sweeter. 

Fair house of joy and bliss, 

Where truest treasure is, 

I do adore thee.” 

The voice hung on the lines for an instant in a 
tremor of passion. Then it continued to a falling 
close— 

“I know thee what thou art, 

I serve thee with my heart, 

And fall before thee.” 

“I think you do well to be tender of her,” the 
Duchess whispered. “Adieu! I will descend pres¬ 
ently and report.” 

The heavy hand of Johnson clutched his arm 
before he had reached the foot of the staircase. 

“Did you hear that?” the tutor questioned 
savagely. “She sings of love like an angel of God, 
and her love is betrayed.” He forced Alastair be¬ 
fore him, and shut the door of the dining-room 
behind them. The candles still burned brightly amid 
the remains of supper, but the logs on the hearth 
had smouldered low. 


Bids Farewell to an English Lady 271 

Johnson was become the strangest of figures, his 
sallow face flushed, his eyes rolling like a man in a 
fit, and a nervousness like palsy affecting his hands 
and shoulders. But Alastair saw none of these 
things, for his attention was held by something 
masterful and noble in the man’s face. 

“Sit down, Alastair Maclean,” he said, “and listen 
to one who loves you as a brother. Sir, we are both 
servants of one lady and that is a bond stricter than 
consanguinity. I am poor and diseased and discon¬ 
sidered, but I have a duty laid upon me which comes 
direct from Omnipotence. Sir, I command you to 
examine into your heart.” 

He laid a hand on the young man’s arm, a hand 
that trembled violently. 

“What are your intentions toward Sir John 
Norreys ?” 

“I mean to find him, and, when found, to fight 
with him and kill him.” 

“For what reason?” 

“Because he is a traitor to my Prince.” 

“And yet you did not press for the death of the 
man Kyd, who was the principal whereas Sir John 
was but the tool. Come, sir, be honest with me; 
why is the extreme penalty decreed to the less 
guilty?” 

Alastair did not answer at first. Then he said— 

“Because Sir John Norreys is the husband of a 
lady to whom the knowledge of his true nature would 
be death.” 

“That reply is nearer the truth, but still far from 
complete honesty.” 

Alastair had a sudden flame of wrath. “Do you 
accuse me of lying?” he asked angrily. 


272 Bids Farewell to an English Eady 

Johnson’s face did not change. “Sir, all men are 
liars,” he said. “I strive to make you speak truth to 
your own soul. The death of Sir John is intended 
merely to save the lady from the pain of disgrace? 
On your honour, for no other purpose?” 

Alastair did not reply. The other sank his harsh 
voice to a gentler and kindlier pitch, and the hand 
on the young man’s arm from a menace became a 
caress. 

“I will answer for you. You love the lady. Nay, 
I do not blame you, for all the world must love her. 
I love her most deeply, but not as you, for you love 
with hope, and look some day to make her yours. 
Therefore you would slay Sir John, and to yourself 
you say that ’tis to save her from shame, but before 
God, you know that ’tis to rid yourself of a 
rival.” 

The man’s eyes were compelling, and his utter 
honesty was like a fire that burned all shamefastness 
from the air. Alastair’s silence was assent. 

“Sir, a lover seeks above all things the good of 
his mistress. If indeed you love her—and it is 
honourable that you should—I implore you to con¬ 
sider further in the matter. We are agreed that it 
is necessary to save her from the shame of the 
knowledge of her husband’s treason, for it is a 
proud lady who would feel disgrace sharper than 
death. If that were all, I would bid you god-speed, 
for Sir John's death would serve that purpose, and 
you and she are fit mates, being alike young and 
highly born. After the natural period of mourning 
was over, you might fairly look to espouse her. But 
ah, sir, that is not all.” 

He got to his feet in his eagerness and stood above 


Bids Farewell to an English Lady 273 

the young man, one hand splayed on the table, as he 
had stood that afternoon at the Sleeping Deer. 

“Listen, sir. I have watched that child in her 
going out and coming in, in her joys and melan¬ 
cholies, in her every mood of caprice and earnest¬ 
ness—watched w T ith the quick eye of one who is half 
lover, half parent. And I have formed most certain 
conclusions about that high nature. She trusts but 
once and that wholly; she will love but once, and that 
with a passion like a consuming fire. If she knew 
the truth about Sir John, she would never trust man¬ 
kind again. On that we are agreed. But I go 
further, sir. If she lost him, she would never love 
another, but go inconsolable to her grave. It is the 
way of certain choice spirits.” 

Alastair made a gesture of dissent. 

“Sir, did you not hear her singing?” Johnson 
asked. “Answer me, heard you ever such a joy of 
surrender in a mortal voice?” 

Alastair could not deny it, for the passionate trill¬ 
ing was still in his ear. 

“But your reasoning is flawed,” he said. “Granted 
that my Lady Norreys has given her love once and 
for all; yet if Sir John remain alive she will presently 
discover his shame, and for the rest of her days be 
tormented with honour wounded through affection.” 

“It need not be,” said Johnson, and his voice had 
sunk to the level of argument from the heights of 
appeal. “I have studied both of them during the 
past weeks, and this is my conclusion. She has made 
a false image of him which she adores, but unless the 
falsity be proved to the world by some violent reve¬ 
lation she will not discover it. She is a happy self¬ 
deceiver, and to the end—unless forcibly enlightened 


274 Bids Farewell to an English Lady 

—will take his common clay for gold. As for him— 
well, he is clay and not gunpowder. He has been 
moulded into infamy by a stronger man and by his 
ancestral greed—for, judging by the family here, his 
race is one of misers. But let him be sufficiently 
alarmed and shown where his interest lies, and he 
will relapse to the paths of decorum. Good he will 
never be, little he must always be, but he may also 
be respectable. He will not lose his halo in his 
lady’s eyes and they may live out their time happily, 
and if God wills some portion of the mother’s 
quality may descend to the children.” 

The thought to Alastair was hideously repellent. 
To whitewash such a rogue and delude such a lady! 
Better surely a painful enlightenment than this de¬ 
ceit. He comforted himself with the reflection that 
it was impossible. 

“But by this time Sir John Norreys is with his 
paymaster, and the mischief is done.” 

“Not so,” said Johnson. “Sir John does not ride 
to Kingston or to Richmond but to Cumberland him¬ 
self, and he lies far in the south. He may yet be 
overtaken and dissuaded.” 

“By whom?” 

“By you, sir.” 

Alastair laughed loud and bitterly. 

“Are you mad, sir? I journey at once to the 
Prince’s camp, for I have news for him that may 
determine his future conduct. Already I am late in 
starting. I must order my horse, and bid farewell 
to the ladies.” He moved to the door, and cried 
instructions to the Spainneach, who smoked a cigarro 
by the hall fire. 

Johnson seized him by the lapels of his coat. “I 


Bids Farewell to an English Lady 275 

implore you, sir, by the mercy of God. Follow Sir 
John and persuade him, compel him, at the sword’s 
point, if need be. The happiness of my darling 
child depends on it. If you do not go, I must go 
myself. The Prince’s news can wait, for it will be 
only a few hours’ delay at the most. What does it 
matter whether or not he be in London a day earlier, 
compared to the well-being of an immortal soul? 
I beseech you, sir, for the love of Christ Who re¬ 
deemed us-” 

“Tush, man, you are raving,” Alastair broke in, 
and moved to the half-open door. At that moment 
the Duchess’s voice sounded on the stairs. 

“Come up, sir,” she said. “My lady will receive 
you before you go, and she bids you bring the other, 
the clumsy fellow whose name I know not.” 

Duchess Kitty met him at the door of Claudia’s 
chamber. 

“Oh, my dear, she is the very archangel of angels, 
and of an innocence to make one weep. She will 
come with me to Amesbury. She dotes on her Sir 
John and will weary me, I fear, with her rhapsodies, 
but I am nobly complaisant and flatter her passion. 
I fear you stand no chance, sir. Her heart is wholly 
in the rogue’s keeping. Enter, for she awaits you.” 

In the dim panelled room lit by many candles and 
a leaping fire the figure of the girl sitting up in the 
great four-poster bed stood out with a startling 
brilliance. Madam Claudia was dressed to receive 
him, as she had been in the midnight colloquy at 
Flambury, in a furred bed-gown and a nightcap of 
lace and pink satin. But her brown eyes were no 
longer pools of dancing light. She held out a hand 
to Alastair with a little sigh. 



276 Bids Farewell to an English Lady 

“I rejoice that you are free from your t-troubles, 
sir,” she said. “ ’Twas a shameful charge, and I did 
not credit it, nor truly did Sir John. And justice, 
they tell me, has been done to the traitor! Sir 
John was deceived like the rest of you, and ’tis a 
cunning rogue that can hoodwink Sir John. You 
are at the end of your mission, sir, and can now 
engage in the honest business of war.” 

“And for yourself, my lady?” 

“I, too, take the road,” she said. You have heard 
of her G-grace’s kindness. I am fortunate to travel 
in such g-gentle company. So it is farewell, sir. You 
ride this night to the Prince, who is at Derby? My 
dear Sir John has preceded you there. Oh, would 
that I could be with him!” And with a morsel of 
cambric she dried a rising tear. 

“And you, Puffin,” she asked, catching sight of 
Johnson. “Do you travel south with us?” 

“Nay, madam, I go with Captain Maclean to the 
Prince’s camp.” 

“Bravo!” she cried. “You have declared your¬ 
self at last. God prosper you, my gallant gentle¬ 
men. I will be there to cheer when you ride behind 
the Prince into London.” 

Alastair was scarcely conscious of her words. He 
saw only her wild wet eyes, compared to which those 
of the pretty Duchess were like pebbles to stars. 
It was the child in her that overwhelmed him, the 
appealing child, trusting utterly with no thought but 
that all the world was well-disposed to her and her 
love. He had known many women in his time, 
though none had touched his cold fancy, but he had 
never before seen woman’s face transfigured with so 
innocent an exaltation. The sadness in it was only 


Bids Farewell to an English Lady 277 

the anxiety of a soul that trembled for the perpetua¬ 
tion of an unbelievable joy. He was nothing to her, 
nor was any man except the one; the virgin garden 
of her heart was enclosed with impenetrable de¬ 
fences. The truth moved him not to irritation, but 
to pity and a protecting care. He could not mar a 
thing so rare, and if its foundations were rotten he 
would be in league to strengthen them. For the 
moment he was not the lover, but the guardian, who 
would perjure his soul to keep alive a childish para¬ 
dise. 

He raised her hand and kissed it. “I am your 
very humble and devoted servant,” he said. And 
then she did a thing for which he was not prepared, 
for with a little cry she put her hands over her eyes 
and wept. 

He hurried from the room without looking back. 
He had made a decision which he found was like a 
dry patch of ground in the midst of rising floods, for 
gathering from every corner of his soul were dark 
and unplumbed tides. 


As he mounted, the Spainneach spoke: “He has 
gone by Milford and the Ernshawbank. Likely he 
will sleep an hour or two at the Pegtop. You might 
find him there if you haste.” 

Johnson’s horse had also been brought, and its 
rider had some trouble in mounting. 

“You will delay me, sir, if you insist on keeping 

me company,” said Alastair. 

“I am a strong rider when I am once in the sad¬ 
dle,” said the other humbly. “But why this hurry? 
You will be in Derby long ere daybreak.” 


278 Bids Farewell to an English Lady 

“I do not ride to Derby, but down the vale to 
overtake a certain gentleman.” 

He heard Johnson mutter a fervent “God be 
thanked” as he turned for a last look at the house. 
In an upper floor there was a glow of firelight and 
candlelight through the curtains of unshuttered 
windows. There lay Claudia, stammering her gentle 
confidences to Duchess Kitty, but with her thoughts 
ranging the hill-roads in the wake of her worthless 
lover. And from one of those dark windows two 
grey beldams were peering into the night and trem¬ 
bling for the riches that were the price of their souls. 


Chapter XVII 

ORDEAL OF HONOUR 


'T'HE night was growing colder, and the moon in 
her first quarter was sinking among heavy 
woolpack clouds. The Spainneach’s whisper had 
been enough for Alastair, who in his sojourn at the 
Sleeping Deer had made himself familiar with the 
neighbourhood, after the fashion of a campaigner 
who may soon have to fight in it. The road led them 
past the silent hostelry, and then left the vale and 
struck over a succession of low ridges to another, 
where a parallel stream of the hills broadened as it 
neared the lowlands. The men did not spare their 
horses, and as the hooves clattered on the bare ribs 
of rock which crossed the track sparks like wildfire 
flew behind them. 

Alastair’s mood was as dark as the weather. The 
sight of Claudia, babbling of her lover, had for a 
moment converted him to Johnson’s view. In a fine 
impulse of quixotry he had ridden from Brightwell, 
his purpose vague towards Sir John Norreys but 
determined in the service of the lady. If her love 
was pledged irrevocably to a knave and fool, then be 
it his business to keep the said knave from greater 
folly, and see that disillusion did not shatter a gentle 
heart. For a little he felt the glow of self-conscious 
worth, and the pleasant melancholy which is born 
of approving self-pity. 

It did not last long. Visions of Claudia, dim- 

279 


280 Ordeal of Honour 

eyed, stammering, all russet and snow, returned to 
ravish his fancy, and the picture of a certain sharp¬ 
nosed gentleman to exacerbate his temper. Before 
God he could not surrender such a darling, he would 
be no party to flinging such a pearl before swine! 
His heart grew hot when he thought of Sir John, 
the mean visage and hedge-hog soul. To condone 
his infamy would be to sin against Heaven—to 
foster his lady’s blind fondness the task of a pander. 
Let the truth be told and the devil be shamed, for a 
wounded heart was better than a slow decay. 

Presently his mind had swung round to a new 
resolution. He would go straight to Derby to the 
Prince, which was his direct soldierly duty. He 
knew the road; the next left-hand turning would lead 
him there before morning. He was already weeks, 
months late; he dared not tarry another hour, for 
he alone knew the truth about the West, and that 
truth might determine the Prince’s strategy. True, 
His Highness was at Derby now, and the Rubicon 
had been doubtless crossed, but in so great a matter 
no precaution could be omitted. At that very 
moment Lochiel, with his letter in his hand, might 
be looking in vain for the man who had named 
Derby as the trysting-place. . . . He would sweep 
southward with the Army to conquest, and then in 
their hour of triumph would root Sir John from his 
traitor’s kennel. The man must fight on his chal¬ 
lenge, and he had no doubt as to the issue of that 
fight. 

But would he? Would he not disappear over¬ 
seas, taking with him his wife under some false 
story? If she were deceived in one matter, she 
might be deceived in others. . . . No, by Heaven, 


Ordeal of Honour 281 

there was no way of it but the one. The fox must 
be found before he reached his earth, and brought to 
account at a sword’s point. Stone dead had no 
fellow. 

The cross-roads lay before them where was the 
turning to Derby. 

“There lies the Prince,” said Alastair, his head 
over his left shoulder. “My duty is to ride forth¬ 
with thither. I could breakfast in the camp.” 

Johnson, though lacking a riding-coat, had grown 
warm with the exercise, and both he and his mount 
were blowing. 

“You would not falter in your most honourable 
resolve?” he puffed. 

Alastair clapped spurs to his beast. “No,” he 
said, “I am resolved before all things to find Sir 
John Norreys. But when I find him I will kill him.” 

He heard a gasp which was more than Mr John¬ 
son’s chronic shortness of breath. As he cantered 
forward the slower and heavier beast of his com¬ 
panion was forced alongside of him, and a hand 
clutched his arm. 

“I beseech you, sir,” said a tragic voice, “I pray 
you, in God’s name, to turn aside to Derby.” 

“I will first meet Sir John,” was the reply and the 
hand was shaken off. 

“But he will be safe at your hands?” 

“That is as God may direct,” said Alastair. 

His resolution being now fixed, his spirits rose. 
He let thoughts of Claudia flush his mind with their 
sweet radiance. He pictured her as he had last seen 
her—the light from the candles making her slim 
white neck below the rosy nightcap take on the bloom 
of a peach, and the leaping flames of the hearth 


282 Ordeal of Honour 

chequering the shadow of the bed-curtain. He saw 
her dim eyes, heard her melting voice, felt the warm 
vigour of her body as she cowered beside him in the 
dark of the Flambury galleries. Too young for 
wife, too old for child, but the ripe age for comrade 
—and such a comrade, for there was a boy’s gal¬ 
lantry in her eyes and something of a child’s confi¬ 
dent fearlessness. He did not hear the groans of 
Mr Johnson pounding dismally behind him, or the 
shuddering cry of owls from the woods. The world 
was a quiet place to him where a soft voice was 
speaking, the thick darkness was all aglow with 
happy pictures. The man’s soul was enraptured by 
his dreams. He found himself suddenly laughing to 
think how new and strange was this mood of his. 
Hitherto he had kept women at arms’ length, and set 
his heart on policy and war, till he had earned the 
repute of one to be trusted and courted, but one 
already at thirty middle-aged. Lord! but there had 
been a melting of icebergs! And like a stab came 
the thought of yet another molten iceberg—Sir John 
—of the sharp nose and the high coat collar! Alas- 
tair cried out like a man in pain. 

They rode into Milford half an hour after mid¬ 
night. There was no light in any house, and the 
inn was a black wall. But the door of the yard was 
open, and a hostler, ascending to his bed in the hay¬ 
loft, accepted a shilling for his news. A man had 
ridden through Milford that night. He had not 
seen him, but he had heard the clatter as he was 
bedding the post horses that had come in late from 
Marlock. How long ago? Not more than an hour, 
maybe less, and the fellow checked his memory with 
a string of minute proofs. 


Ordeal of Honour 283 

Alastair swung his horse’s head back to the road. 
“Courage, my friend,” he cried. “We are gaining 
on him. We shall overtake him before morning.” 

# Again Johnson caught his arm. “Bethink you, 
sir,” he stammered. “You ride on an errand of 
murder.” 

“Nay,” was the answer, “of love.” 

But the next miles were over roads like plough¬ 
lands, and the rain blew up from the south-west and 
set the teeth chattering of the cloakless Mr Johnson. 
The night was very dark and the road seemed to 
pass no villages, for not a light appeared in the 
wastes of wet ling and fern and plashing woods. 
The track could be discerned well enough, for it was 
the only possible route through the rugged land, and 
happily for the riders there were no crossways. No 
other traveller met them or was overtaken—which, 
thought Alastair, was natural, for with the Prince 
at Derby the flight of the timid would be to the 
south, and not north or west into the enemy’s 
country. 

Long before dawn he was far outside the country¬ 
side of which he had any knowledge. He had been 
given Ernshawbank by the Spainneach as the second 
point to make for, and had assumed that there, if 
not before, he would fall in with Sir John. Yet 
when he came to a village about cockcrow, and 
learned from a sleepy carter that it was Ernshaw¬ 
bank, he did not find his quarry. But at the inn he 
had news of him. A man answering his description 
had knocked up the landlord two hours before, 
drunk a gill of brandy, eaten a crust, and bought for 
a guinea the said landlord’s cocked grey beaver, new 
a month ago at Leek Fair. Two hours! The man 


284 Ordeal of Honour 

was gaining on him! It appeared that he had ridden 
the path for lower Dovedale, as if he were making 
for Staffordshire and Trentside. 

The two breakfasted at an ale house below Thorp 
Cloud, when a grey December morning was breaking 
over the leafless vale and the swollen waters of 
Dove. Their man had been seen, riding hard, with 
a face blue from cold and wet, and his fine clothes 
pitifully draggled with the rain. He had crossed 
the river, and was therefore bound for Staffordshire, 
and not Nottinghamshire, as Alastair had at first 
guessed. A minute’s reflection convinced him of the 
reason. Sir John was specially concerned with cut¬ 
ting off the help coming to the Prince from the West, 
and therefore went to join those, like the Duke of 
Kingston, who were on that flank, rather than the 
army which lay between Derby and London. The 
reflection gave him acute uneasiness. Nottingham¬ 
shire was distant, so there was a chance to overtake 
the fugitive on the way. But, as it now was, any 
hour might see the man in sanctuary. The next vil¬ 
lage might hold a patrol of the Duke’s. . . . He 
cut short the meal, which Mr Johnson had scarcely 
tasted, and the two were again on their weary beasts 
pounding up the steep lanes towards Ershalton and 
my lord Shrewsbury’s great house. 

The mist cleared, a wintry sun shone, and the sky 
was mottled with patches of watery blue. Mr 
Johnson’s teeth began to chatter so violently that 
Alastair swung round and regarded him. 

“You wi’l without doubt catch an ague, sir,” he 
said, and at the next presentable inn he insisted on 
his toasting his small-clothes before the kitchen fire, 
drinking a jorum of hot rum, and borrowing a coat 


Ordeal of Honour 285 

of the landlord’s till his own was dry. For suddenly 
the panic of hurry was gone out of Alastair, and he 
saw this business as something predestined and ulti¬ 
mate. Fate was moving the pieces, and her iron 
fingers did not fumble. If it was written that he and 
Sir John should meet, then stronger powers than he 
would set the stage. He was amazed at his own 
calm. 

The rum made his companion drowsy, and as they 
continued on the road he ceased to groan, and at the 
next halting-place did not stare at him with plaintive 
hang-dog eyes. As for Alastair he found that his 
mind had changed again and that all his resolution 
w r as fluid. 

His hatred of the pursued was ebbing, indeed had 
almost vanished, for with the sense of fatality which 
was growing upon him he saw the man as no better 
than a pawn; a thing as impersonal as sticks and 
stones. All the actors of the piece—Kyd, Norreys, 
the Spoonbills, Edom, the sullen Johnson, grew in 
his picture small and stiff like marionettes, and 
Claudia alone had the warmth of life. Once more 
she filled the stage of his memory, but it was not the 
russet and pearl of her and her witching eyes that 
held him now, but a tragic muse who appealed from 
the brink of chasms. She implored his pity on all 
she loved, on the casket where she had hid her heart. 

With a start he recognised that this casket was no 
other than Sir John Norreys. 

He might shatter it and rescue the heart, but how 
would the precious thing fare in the shattering? 
Her eyes rose before him with their infinite sur¬ 
render. Was Johnson right and was she of the race 
of women that give once in life and then utterly and 


286 Ordeal of Honour 

for ever? If so, his errand was not to succour, but 
to slay. His sword would not cut the bonds of 
youth and innocence, it would pierce their heart. 

He forced his mind to reconstruct the three occa¬ 
sions when she had faced him—not for his delecta¬ 
tion, but to satisfy a new-born anxiety. He saw her 
at Flambury, a girl afire with zeal and daring, sexless 
as a child, and yet always in her sweet stumbling 
phrases harping on her dear Sir John. He saw her 
in the Brown Room at the Sleeping Deer, a tender 
muse of memories, but imperious towards dishonour, 
one whose slim grace might be brittle but would not 
bend. Last he saw her set up in the great bed at 
Brightwell, one arm round the neck of Duchess 
Kitty, the other stretched towards him in that 
woman’s appeal which had held him from Derby 
and the path of duty. 

There is that in hard riding and hard weather 
which refines a man’s spirit, purging it of its grosser 
humours. The passion of the small hours had gone 
utterly from Alastair, and instead his soul was filled 
with a tempestuous affection, not of a lover but of a 
kinsman and protector. The darling child must at 
all costs be sheltered from sorrow, and if she pined 
for her toy it must be found for her, its cracks 
mended and its paint refurbished. His mood was 
now the same as Johnson’s, his resolution the same. 
He felt an odd pleasure in this access of tenderness, 
but he was conscious, too, that the pleasure was like 
a thin drift of flowers over dark mires of longing 
and sorrow. For his world had been tumbled down, 
and all the castles he had built. He had always been 
homeless, but now he was a thousandfold more an 
outlaw, for the one thing on earth he desired was 


Ordeal of Honour 287 

behind him and not before him, and he was fleeing 
from hope. 

In the afternoon the rain descended again and the 
road passed over a wide heath, which had been 
blackened by some autumn fire so that the shores of 
its leaden pools were like charcoal, and skeleton 
coverts shook their charred branches in the wind. 
The scene was a desolation, but he viewed it with 
calm eyes, for a strange peace was creeping into his 
soul. He turned in the saddle, and saw six yards 
behind him Johnson jogging wearily along, his heavy 
shoulders bowed and his eyes fixed dully on his 
horse’s neck. The man must be not far from the 
limits of his strength, thought Alastair. . . . Once 
again he had one of his sudden premonitions. Sir 
John Norreys was near at hand, for he had not yet 
stopped for a meal and he had now been on the road 
for twelve hours. The conviction grew upon him, 
and made him urge his tired beast to a better pace. 
Somewhere just in front was the meeting-place 
where the ordeal was appointed which should decree 
the fate of two souls. . . . 

The drizzle changed into half a gale, and scouring 
blasts shut out the landscape. There came a mo¬ 
ment’s clearing, and lo! before him lay a bare space 
in the heath, where another road entered from the 
west to join the highway. At their meeting, set in a 
grove of hornbeams, stood an inn. 

It was a small place, ancient, long and low, and 
the signboard could not be read in the dim weather. 
But beneath it, new-painted, was an open eye. He 
checked his horse, and turned to the door, for he 
knew with utter certainty that he had reached his 
destination. 


288 Ordeal of Honour 

He dropped from the saddle, and since there was 
no stable-lad in sight, he tied the reins to a ring in 
the wall. Then he pushed open the door and de¬ 
scended a step into the inn kitchen. A man was busy 
about the hearth, a grizzled elderly fellow in 
leathern small-clothes. In front of the fire a fine 
coat hung drying on two chairs, and a pair of sod¬ 
den boots steamed beside the log basket. 

The inn-keeper looked up, and something in the 
quiet eyes and weather-worn face awoke in Alastair 
a recollection. He had not seen the face before, but 
he had seen its like. 

“You have a guest?” he said. 

The man did not answer, and Alastair knew that 
no word or deed of his would compel an answer, if 
the man were unwilling. 

“You have the sign,” he said. “I, too, am of the 
Spoonbills. I seek Master Midwinter.” 

The inn-keeper straightened himself. “He shall 
be found,” he said. “What message do I carry?” 

“Say that he to whom he promised help on Ot- 
moor now claims it. And stay, there are two weary 
cattle outside. Have them fed and stabled.” 

The man turned to go, but Alastair checked him. 

“You have a guest?” he asked. 

“He is now upstairs at food,” was the answer 
given readily. “He feeds in his shirt, for he is all 
mucked and moiled with the roads.” 

“I have business with him, I and my friend. Let 
Us be alone till Master Midwinter comes.” 

The man stood aside to let Johnson stumble in. 
Then the door was shut, and to Alastair’s ear there 
was the turning of a key. 

Johnson’s great figure seemed broken with weari- 


Ordeal of Honour 289 

ness. He staggered across the uneven stone floor, 
and rolled into a grandfather’s chair which stood 
to the left of the fire. Then he caught sight of the 
coat drying in the glow and recognised it. Into his 
face, grey with fatigue, came a sudden panic. “It is 
his,” he cried. “He is here.” He lifted his head 
and seemed to listen like a stag at pause. Then he 
flung himself from the chair, and rushed on Alastair, 
who was staring abstractedly at the blaze. “You 
will not harm him,” he cried. “You will not break 
my lady’s heart. Sooner, sir, I will choke you with 
my own hands.” 

His voice was the scream of an animal in pain, 
his skin was livid, his eyes were hot coals. Alastair, 
taken by surprise, was all but swung off his feet by 
the fury of the assault. One great arm was round 
his waist, one hand was clutching his throat. The 
two staggered back, upsetting the chair before the 
fire; the hand at the throat was shaken off, and in a 
second they were at wrestling-grips in the centre 
of the floor. 

Both men were weary, and one was lately re¬ 
covered of a sickness. This latter, too, was the 
lighter, and for a moment Alastair found himself 
helpless in a grip which crushed in his sides and 
stopped his breath. But Johnson’s passion was like 
the spouting of a volcano and soon died down. The 
fiery vigour went out of his clutch, but it remained a 
compelling thing, holding the young man a close 
prisoner. 

The noise of the scuffle had alarmed the gentleman 
above. The stairs ran up in a steep flight direct 
from the kitchen, and as Alastair looked from below 
his antagonist’s elbow, he saw a white face peer be- 


290 Ordeal of Honour 

neath the low roof of the stairway, and a little 
further down three-quarters of the length of a sword 
blade. He was exerting the power of his younger 
arms against the dead strength of Johnson, but all 
the while his eyes were held by this new apparition. 
It was something clad only in shirt and breeches and 
rough borrowed stockings, but the face was unmis¬ 
takable and the haggard eyes. 

The apparition descended another step, and now 
Alastair saw the hand which grasped the sword. 
Fear was in the man’s face, and then a deeper terror, 
for he had recognised one of the combatants. There 
was perplexity there, too, for he was puzzled at the 
sight, and after that a spasm of hope. He hesitated 
for a second till he grasped the situation. Then he 
shouted something which may have been an encour¬ 
agement to Johnson, and leaped the remaining steps 
on to the kitchen floor. 

Johnson had not seen him, for his head was turned 
the other way and his sight and hearing were dimmed 
by his fury. The man in underclothes danced round 
the wrestlers, babbling strangely. “Hold him!” he 
cried. “Hold him, and I’ll finish him!” His blade 
was shortened for a thrust, but the movement of 
the wrestlers frustrated him. He made a pass, but 
it only grazed the collar of Alastair’s coat. 

Then he found a better chance, and again his arm 
was shortened. A hot quiver went through Alas¬ 
tair’s shoulder, for a rapier had pinked the flesh and 
had cut into the flapping pouch of Johnson’s coat. 

It may have been Alastair’s cry, or the fierce 
shout of the man in underclothes, but Johnson 
awoke suddenly to what was happening. He saw 
a white face with fiery eyes, he saw the rapier drawn 


Ordeal of Honour 291 

back for a new thrust with blood on its point. . . . 
With a shudder he loosened his grip and let Alastair 
go free. 

“I have done murder,” he cried, and staggered 
across the floor till he fell against the dresser. His 
hands were at his eyes and he was suddenly taken 
with a passion of sobbing. 

The two remaining faced each other, one in his 
stocking-soles, dancing like a crazy thing in the glow 
of the wood-fire, triumph in his small eyes. Alastair, 
dazed and shaken, was striving to draw his blade, 
which, owing to the struggle, had become entangled 
in the skirts of his riding-coat. The other, awaking 
to the new position of affairs, pressed on him wildly 
till he gave ground. . . . And then he halted, for a 
blade had crossed his. 

Both men had light travelling-swords, which in a 
well-matched duello should have met with the tinkle 
of thin ice in a glass. But now there was the jar and 
whine of metal harshly used, for the one lunged 
recklessly, and the other stood on a grim defensive, 
parrying with a straight arm a point as disorderly 
as wildfire. Sir John Norreys had the skill in fence 
of an ordinary English squire, learned from an Ox¬ 
ford maitre d’ es crime and polished by a lesson or 
two in Covent Garden—an art no better than igno¬ 
rance when faced with one perfected by Gerard and 
d’Aubigny, and tested in twenty affairs against the 
best swords of France. 

Alastair’s wound was a mere scratch, and at this 
clearing of issues his wits had recovered and his 
strength returned. As he fought, his eyes did not 
leave the other’s face. He saw its chalky pallor, 
where the freckles showed like the scars of small- 


292 Ordeal of Honour 

pox, the sharp arrogant nose, the weak mouth with 
the mean lines around it, the quick, hard eyes now 
beginning to waver from their first fury. The man 
meant to kill him, and as he realised this, the atmos¬ 
phere of the duello fled, and it was again the old 
combat a outrance of his clan—his left hand reached 
instinctively for the auxiliary dagger which should 
have hung at his belt. And then he laughed, for 
whatever his enemy’s purposes, success was not 
likely to follow them. 

The scene had to Alastair the spectral unreality 
of a dream. The kitchen was hushed save for the 
fall of ashes on the hearth, the strained sobbing of 
Johnson, and the rasp of the blades. The face of 
Sir John Norreys was a mirror in which he read his 
own predominance. The eyes lost their heat, the 
pupils contracted till they were two shining beads 
in the dead white of the skin, the wild lunging grew 
wilder, the breath came in short gasps. But the face 
was a mirror, too, in which he read something of the 
future. If his resolution to spare the man had not 
been already taken, it must now have become irre¬ 
vocable. This was a child, a stripling, who con¬ 
fronted him, a mere amateur of vice, a thing which 
to slay would have been no better than common mur¬ 
der. Pity for the man, even a strange kindness stole 
into Alastair’s soul. He wondered how he could 
ever have hated anything so crude and weak. 

He smiled again, and at that smile all the terrors 
of death crowded into the other’s face. He seemed 
to nerve himself for a last effort, steadied the fury 
of his lunges and aimed a more skilful thrust in 
tierce. Alastair had a mind to end the farce. His 
parry beat up the other’s blade, and by an easy 


Ordeal of Honour 293 

device of the schools he twitched the sword from his 
hand so that it clattered at Johnson’s feet. 

Sir John Norreys stood stock-still for an instant, 
his mouth working like a child about to weep. Then 
some share of manhood returned to him. He drew 
himself straight, swallowed what may have been a 
sob, and let his arms drop by his side. 

“I am at your mercy,” he stammered, “what do 
you purpose with me?” 

Alastair returned his sword to its sheath. “I 
purpose to save your life,” he said, “and if God be 
merciful, your soul.” 

He stripped off his riding-coat. “Take this,” he 
said. “It is wintry weather, and may serve till your 
own garments are dry. It is ill talking unclad, Sir 
John, and we have much to say to each other.” 

Johnson had risen, and his face was heavy with 
an emotion which might have been sorrow or joy. 
He stood with arm upraised like a priest blessing 
his flock. “Now to Angels and Archangels and all 
the Company of Heaven,” he cried, and then he 
stopped, for the door opened softly and closed 
again. 

It was Midwinter that entered. His shoulders 
filled the doorway, and his eyes constrained all three 
to a tense silence. He walked to the fireplace, pick¬ 
ing up Norreys’s sword, which he bent into a half 
hoop against the jamb of the chimney. As his quiet 
gaze fell on the company it seemed to exercise a 
peaceful mastery which made the weapon in his hand 
a mere trinket. 

“You have summoned me, Captain Maclean,” he 
said. “I am here to make good my promise. Show 
me how I can serve you.” 


294 


Ordeal of Honour 

“We are constituted a court of honour,” said 
Alastair. “We seek your counsel.” 

He turned to Norreys. 

“You are not two months married, Sir John. 
How many years have you to your age?” 

The man answered like an automaton. “I am in 
my twenty-third,” he said. He was looking alter¬ 
nately to his antagonist and to Midwinter, still with 
the bewilderment of a dull child. 

“Since when have you meddled in politics?” 

“Since scarce two years.” 

“You were drawn to the Prince’s side—by what? 
Was it family tradition?” 

“No, damme, my father was a Hanover man when 
he lived. I turned Jacobite to please Claudie. There 
was no welcome at Chastlecote unless a man wore 
the white rose.” 

“And how came you into your recent busi¬ 
ness?” 

“ ’Twas Kyd’s doing. . . . No, curse it, I won’t 
shelter behind another, for I did it of my own free 
will. But ’twas Kyd showed me a way of improving 
my fortunes, for he knew I cared not a straw who 
had the governing of the land.” 

“And you were happy in the service?” 

The baronet’s face had lost its childishness, and 
had grown sullen. 

“I was content.” Then he broke out. “Rot him, 
I was not content—not of late. I thought the Prince 
and his adventure was but a Scotch craziness. But 
now, with him in the heart of England I have been 
devilish anxious.” 

“For your own safety? Or was there perhaps 
another reason?” 


295 


Ordeal of Honour 

Sir John’s pale face flushed. “Let that be. Put 
it that I feared for my neck and my estate.” 

Alastair turned smiling to the others. “I begin 
to detect the rudiments of honesty ... I am going 
to unriddle your thoughts, Sir John. You were be¬ 
ginning to wonder how your wife would regard your 
courses. Had the Prince shipwrecked beyond the 
Border, she would never have known of them, and 
the Rising would have been between you only a sad 
pleasing memory. But now she must learn the truth, 
and you are afraid. Why? She is a lady of for¬ 
tune, but you did not marry her for her fortune.” 

“My God, no,” he cried. “I loved her most 
damnably, and I ever shall.” 

“And she loves you?” 

The flush grew deeper. “She is but a child. She 
has scarcely seen another man. I think she loves 
me. 

“So you have betrayed the Prince’s cause, because 
it did not touch you deep and you favoured it only 
because of a lady’s eyes. But the Prince looks like 
succeeding, Sir John. He is now south of Derby 
on the road to London, and his enemies do not 
abide him. What do you purpose in that event? 
Have you the purchase at his Court to get your 
misdoings overlooked?” 

“I trusted to Kyd.” 

“Vain trust. Last night, after you left us so 
hastily, Kyd was stripped to the bare bone.” 

“Was he sent to the Prince?” the man asked 
sharply. 

“No. We preferred to administer our own jus¬ 
tice, as we will do with you. But he is gone into a 
long exile.” 


296 


Ordeal of Honour 

“Is he dead? . . . You promised me my life.” 

“He lives, as you shall live. Sir John, I will be 
frank with you. You are a youth whom vanity and 
greed have brought deep into the mire. I would 
get you out of it—not for your own sake, but for 
that of a lady whom you love, I think, and who mo^t 
assuredly loves you. Your besetting sin is avarice. 
Well, let it be exercised upon your estates and not 
upon the fortunes of better men. I have a notion 
that you may grow with good luck into a very decent 
sort of man—not much of a fellow at heart, per¬ 
haps, but reputable and reputed—at any rate enough 
to satisfy the love-blinded eyes of your lady. Do 
you assent?” 

The baronet reddened again at the contemptuous 
kindliness of Alastair’s words. 

“I have no choice,” he said gruffly. 

“Then it is the sentence of this court that you 
retire to your estates and live there without moving 
outside your park pale.” 

“Alone?” 

“Alone. Your wife has gone into Wiltshire with 
her Grace of Queensberry. You will stay at Weston 
till she returns to you, and that date depends upon 
the posture of affairs in the country. You will give 
me your oath to meddle no more in politics. And 
for the safety of your person and the due observance 
of your promise you will be given an escort on your 
journey south.” 

“Will you send Highlanders into Oxfordshire?” 
was the astonished question. 

Midwinter answered. “Nay, young sir, you will 
have the bodyguard of Old England.” 

Sir John stared at Midwinter and saw something 


Ordeal of Honour 297 

in that face which made him avert his gaze. He 
suddenly shivered, and a different look came into his 
eyes. “You have been merciful to me, sirs,” he said, 
“merciful beyond my deserts. I owe you more than 
I can repay.” 

“You owe it to your wife, sir,” Alastair broke in* 
“Cherish her dearly and let that be your atonement. 
. . . If you will take my advice, you will snatch a 
little sleep, for you have been moss-trooping for a 
round of the clock.” 

As the baronet’s bare shanks disappeared up the 
stairway Alastair turned wearily to the others. A 
haze seemed to cloud his eyes, and the crackle of 
logs on the hearth sounded in his ears like the noise 
of the sea. 

“You were right,” he told Johnson. “There’s 
the makings of a sober husband in that man. No 
hero, but she may be trusted to gild her idol. I 
think she will be happy.” 

“You have behaved as a good Christian should.” 
Mr Johnson was still shaking as if from the ague. 
“Had I been in your case, I do not think I would 
have shown so just a mind.” 

“Call it philosophy, which makes a man know 
what it is not in his power to gain,” Alastair 
laughed. “I think I have learned the trick of it 
from you.” 

He swayed and caught Midwinter’s shoulder. 
“Forgive me, old friend. I have been riding for 
forty hours, and have fought and argued in between, 
and before that I rose off a sick-bed. . . . But I 
must on to Derby. Get a fresh horse, my brave 
one.” 

Midwinter drew him to an arm-chair, and seemed 


298 Ordeal of Honour 

to fumble with his hands for a second or two at his 
brow. When Johnson looked again Alastair was 
asleep, while the other dressed roughly the hole in 
his shoulder made by Sir John’s sword. 

“Festina lente, Mr Johnson. I can provide fresh 
beasts, but not fresh legs for the riders. The pair 
of you will sleep for five hours and then sup, for 
Derby is a far cry and an ill road, and if you start 
as you are you will founder in the first slough.” 


Chapter XVIII 


IN WHICH THREE GENTLEMEN CONFESS THEIR 

NAKEDNESS 

THRESH horses were found, and at four in the 
morning, four hours before daylight in that 
murky weather, Alastair and Johnson left the inn. 
At the first cross-roads Midwinter joined them. 

“Set your mind at ease about Sir John,” he said. 
“He will travel securely to the Cherwell side, and 
none but the Spoonbills will know of his journey. 
I think you have read him right, sir, and that he is 
a prosy fellow who by accident has slipped into 
roguery and will return gladly to his natural rut. 
But in case you are mistaken, he will be overlooked 
by my people, for we are strong in that countryside. 
Be advised, sir, and ride gently, for you have no 
bodily strength to spare, and your master will not 
welcome a sick man.” 

“Do you ride to Derby with us?” Alastair asked. 

“I have business on that road and will convey you 
thus far,” was the answer. 

It was a morning when the whole earth and sky 
seemed suffused in moisture. Fog strung its beads 
on their clothes, every hedgerow tree dripped clam¬ 
mily, the roads were knee-deep in mud, flood-water 
lay in leaden streaks in the hollows of flat fields, 
each sluggish brook was a torrent, and at intervals 
the air would distil into a drenching shower. Alas- 
tair’s body was still weary, but his heart was light¬ 
ened. He had finished now with dalliance and was 

299 


300 In Which Three Gentlemen 

back at his old trade; and for the moment the mem¬ 
ory of Claudia made only a warm background to 
the hopes of a soldier. Little daggers of doubt 
stabbed his thoughts—he had sacrificed another day 
and night in his chase of Sir John, and the Prince 
had now been at Derby the better part of forty 
hours without that report which he had promised. 
But surely, he consoled himself, so slight a delay 
could matter nothing; an army which had marched 
triumphant to the heart of England, and had already 
caused the souls of its enemies to faint, could not 
falter when the goal was within sight. But the 
anxiety hung like a malaise about the fringes of his 
temper and caused him now and then to spur his 
horse fifty yards beyond his companion. 

The road they travelled ran to Derby from the 
south-west, and its deep ruts showed the heavy traffic 
it had lately borne. By it coaches, wagons and every 
variety of pack and riding horse had carried the 
timid folks of Derbyshire into sanctuaries beyond 
the track of the Highland army. To-day the traffic 
had shrunk to an occasional horseman or a farmer’s 
wife with panniers, and a jovial huntsman in red 
who, from his greeting, seemed thus early to have 
been powdering his wig. Already the country was 
settling down, thought Alastair, as folk learned of 
the Prince’s clemency and good-will. . . . The 
army would not delay at Derby, but was probably 
now on the move southward. It would go by Lough¬ 
borough and Leicester, but cavalry patrols might 
show themselves on the flank to the west. At any 
moment some of Elcho’s or Pitsligo’s horse, per¬ 
haps young Tinnis himself, might canter out of the 
mist. 


Confess Their Nakedness 301 

He cried to Midwinter, asking whether it would 
not be better to assume that the Prince had left the 
town, and to turn more southward so as to cut in on 
his march. 

“Derby is the wiser goal,” Midwinter an¬ 
swered. “It is unlikely that His Highness him¬ 
self will have gone, for he will travel with the 
rear-guard. In three hours you will see All Saints’ 
spire.” 

At eight they halted for food at a considerable 
village. It was Friday, and while the other two 
attacked a cold sirloin, Alastair broke his fast on 
a crust, resisting the landlord’s offer of carp or eels 
from the Trent on the ground that they would take 
too long to dress. Then to pass the time while the 
others finished their meal he wandered into the 
street, and stopped by the church door. The place 
was open, and he entered to find a service proceed¬ 
ing and a thin man in a black gown holding forth 
to an audience of women. No Jacobite this parson, 
for his text was from the 18th chapter of Second 
Chronicles. “Wilt thou go up with me to Ramoth- 
Gilead?” and the sermon figured the Prince as 
Ahab of Israel and Ramoth-Gilead as that (un¬ 
specified) spot where he was to meet his fate. 

“A bold man the preacher,” thought Alastair, 
as he slipped out, “to croak like a raven against a 
triumphing cause.” But it appeared there were 
other bold men in the place. He stopped opposite 
a tavern, from which came the sound of drunken 
mirth, and puzzled at its cause, when the day’s work 
should be beginning. Then he reflected that with 
war in the next parish men’s minds must be unset¬ 
tled and their first disposition to stray towards ale- 


302 


In Which Three Gentlemen 


houses. Doubtless these honest fellows were cele¬ 
brating the deliverance of England. 

But the words, thickly uttered, which disen¬ 
tangled themselves from the tavern were other 
than he had expected: 

“George is magnanimous, 

Subjects unanimous, 

Peace to us bring,” 

ran the ditty, and the chorus called on God to save 
the usurper. He stood halted in a perplexity which 
was half anger, for he had a notion to give these 
louts the flat of his sword for their treason. Then 
someone started an air he knew too well: 

“O Brother Sawney, hear you the news? 

Twang ’em, we’ll bang ’em and 
Hang ’em up all. 

An army’s just coming without any shoes, 

Twang ’em, we’ll bang ’em, and 
Hang ’em up all.” 

It was that accursed air “Lilibulero” which had 
drummed His Highness’s grandfather out of Eng¬ 
land. Surely the ale-house company must be a 
patrol of Kingston’s or Richmond’s, that had got 
perilously becalmed thus far north. He walked to 
the window and cast a glance inside. No, they 
were heavy red-faced yokels, the men-folk of the 
village. He had a second of consternation at the 
immensity of the task of changing this leaden 
England. 

As they advanced the roads were better peopled, 
market folk for the most part returning from 


Confess Their Nakedness 303 

Derby, and now and then parties of young men who 
cried news to women who hung at the corners 
where farm tracks debouched from the highway. 
In all these people there was an air of expectancy 
and tension natural in a land on the confines of 
war. The three travellers bettered their pace. “In 
an hour,” Midwinter told them, “we reach the Ash¬ 
bourne road and so descend on Derby from the 
north.” As the minutes passed, Alastair’s excite¬ 
ment grew till he had hard work to conform his 
speed to that of his companions. He longed to 
hasten on—not from anxiety, for that had left him, 
but from a passion to see his Prince again, to be 
with comrades-in-arms, to share in the triumph of 
these days of marvel. Somewhere in Derby His 
Highness would now be kneeling at mass; he longed 
to be at his side in that sacrament of dedication. 

Then as they topped a ridge in a sudden clearing 
of the weather a noble spire rose some miles ahead, 
and around it in the flat of a wide valley hung the 
low wisps of smoke which betokened human dwell¬ 
ings. It did not need Midwinter’s cry of “All 
Saints” to tell Alastair that he was looking at the 
place which held his master and the hope of the 
Cause. By tacit consent the three men spurred 
their beasts, and rode into a village, the long street 
of which ran north and south. “ ’Tis the high road 
from Ashbourne to Derby,” said Midwinter. “To 
the right, sirs, unless you are for Manchester and 
Scotland.” 

But there was that about the village which made 
each pull on his bridle rein. It was as still as a 
churchyard. Every house door was closed, and at 
the little windows could be seen white faces and 


304 In Which Three Gentlemen 

timid eyes. The inn door had been smashed and 
the panes in its front windows, and a cask in the 
middle of the street still trickled beer from its 
spigot. It might have been the night after a fair, 
but instead it was broad daylight, and the after¬ 
taste was less of revelry than of panic. 

The three men slowly and silently moved down 
the street, and the heart of one of them was the 
prey of a leaping terror. Scared eyes, like those of 
rabbits in a snare, were watching them from the 
windows. In the inn-yard there was no sign of a 
soul, except the village idiot who was playing nine¬ 
pins with bottles. Midwinter hammered on a back 
door, but there was no answer. But as they turned 
again towards the street they were aware of a 
mottled face that watched them from a side win¬ 
dow. Apparently the face was satisfied with their 
appearance, for the window was slightly opened and 
a voice cried “Hist!” Alastair turned and saw a 
troubled fat countenance framed in the sash of a 
pantry casement. 

“Be the salvages gone, gen’lemen?” the voice 
asked. “The murderin’ heathen has blooded my 
best cow to make their beastly porridge.” 

“We have but now arrived,” said Alastair. “We 
are for Derby. Pray, sir, what pestilence has 
stricken this place?” 

“For Derby,” said the man. “Ye’ll find a com¬ 
fortable town, giving thanks to Almighty God and 
cleansin’ the lowsiness of its habitation. What 
pestilence, says you? A pestilence, verily, good sir, 
for since cockcrow the rebel army has been meltin’ 
away northwards like the hosts o’ Sennacherib be¬ 
fore the blast of the Lord. Horse and foot and 


Confess Their Nakedness 305 

coaches and the spawn o’ Rome himself in the midst 
o’ them. Not but what he be a personable young 
man, with his white face and pretty white wig, and 
his sad smile, and where he was the rebels marched 
like an army. But there was acres of breechless 
rabbledom at his heels that thieved like pyots. Be 
they all passed, think ye?” 

The chill at Alastair’s heart turned to ice. 

“But the Prince is in Derby,” he stammered. 
“He marches south.” 

“Not so, young sir,” said the man. “I dunno the 
why of it, but since cockcrow he and his rascality has 
been fleein’ north. Old England’s too warm for 
the vermin and they’re hastin’ back to their bogs.” 

The head was suddenly withdrawn, since the man 
saw something which was still hid from the others. 
There was a sound of feet in the road, the soft tread 
which deer make when they are changing their pas¬ 
ture. From his place in the alley Alastair saw 
figures come into sight, a string of outlandish 
figures that without pause or word poured down 
the street. There were perhaps a score of them— 
barefoot Highlanders, their ragged kilts buckled 
high on their bodies, their legs blue with cold, their 
shirts unspeakably foul and tattered, their long hair 
matted into elf-locks. Each man carried plunder, 
one a kitchen clock slung on his back by a rope, 
another a brace of squalling hens, another some 
goodman’s wraprascal. Their furtive eyes raked 
the houses, but they did not pause in the long loping 
trot with which of a moonlight night they had often 
slunk through the Lochaber passes. They wore the 
Macdonald tartan, and the familiar sight seemed to 
strip from Alastair’s eyes the last film of illusion. 


306 


In Which Three Gentlemen 


So that was the end of the long song. Gone the 
velvet and steel of a great crusade, the honourable 
hopes, the chivalry and the high adventure, and 
what was left was these furtive banditti slinking 
through the mud like the riff-raff of a fair. . . . 
It was too hideous to envisage, and the young 
man’s mind was mercifully dulled after the first 
shattering certainty. Mechanically the three turned 
into the street. 

The courage of the inhabitants was reviving. 
One or two men had shown themselves, and one 
fellow with a flageolet was starting a tune. An¬ 
other took it up, and began to sing. 

“O Brother Sawney, hear you the news?” 

and presently several joined in the chorus of 

“Twang ’em, we’ll bang ’em, and 
Hang ’em up all.” 

“Follow me,” said Midwinter, and they followed 
him beyond the houses, and presently turned off 
into a path that ran among woods into the dale. 
In Alastair’s ears the accursed tune rang like the 
voice of thousands, till it seemed that all England 
behind him was singing it, a scornful valedictory to 
folly. 

He dismounted in a dream and found himself set 
by the hearth in the well-scrubbed kitchen of a 
woodland inn. Midwinter disappeared and re¬ 
turned with three tankards of home-brewed, which 
he distributed among them. No one spoke a word, 
Johnson sprawling on a chair with his chin on his 
breast and his eyes half-closed, while his left hand 


Confess Their Nakedness 307 

beat an aimless tattoo, Midwinter back in the 
shadows, and Alastair in the eye of the fire, unseeing 
and absorbed. The palsy was passing from the 
young man’s mind, and he was enduring the bitter¬ 
ness of returning thought, like the pain of the blood 
flowing back to a frozen limb. No agony ever en¬ 
dured before in his life, not even the passion of 
disquiet when he had been prisoner in the hut and 
had overheard Sir John Norreys’s talk, had so torn 
at the roots of his being. 

For it was clear that on him and on him alone 
had the Cause shipwrecked. At some hour yester¬ 
day the fainthearts in the Council had won, and the 
tragic decision had been taken, the Prince protest¬ 
ing—he could see the bleached despair in his face 
and hear the hopeless pleading in his voice. He 
imagined Lochiel and others of the stalwarts plead¬ 
ing for a day’s delay, delay which might bring the 
lost messenger, himself, with the proofs that would 
convince the doubters. All was over now, for a 
rebellion on the defensive was a rebellion lost. 
With London at their mercy, with Cumberland and 
the Whig Dukes virtually in flight, and a dumb 
England careless which master was hers, they had 
turned their back on victory and gone northward to 
chaos and defeat. And all because of their doubt 
of support, which was even then waiting in the 
West for their summons. Mr Nicholas Kyd had 
conquered in his downfall, and in his exile would 
chuckle over the discomfiture of his judges. 

But it had been his own doing—his and none 
other’s. Providence had provided an eleventh-hour 
chance, which he had refused. Had he ridden 
straight from Brightwell, he could have been with 


308 In Which Three Gentlemen 

the Prince in the small hours of the morning, time 
enough to rescind the crazy decision and set the 
army on the road for Loughborough and St 
James’s. But he had put his duty behind him for 
a whim. Not a whim of pleasure—for he had sac¬ 
rificed his dearest hopes—but of another and a 
lesser duty. A perverse duty, it seemed to him 
now, the service of a woman rather than of his 
King. Great God, what a tangle was life! He felt 
no bitterness against any mortal soul, not even 
against the oafs who were now singing “George is 
magnanimous.” He and he alone must bear the 
blame, since in a high mission he had let his pur¬ 
pose be divided, and in a crisis had lacked that 
singleness of aim which is the shining virtue of the 
soldier. . . . His imagination, heated to fever point, 
made a panorama of tragic scenes. He saw the 
Prince’s young face thin and haggard and drawn, 
looking with hopeless eyes into the northern mists, 
a Pretender now for evermore, when he might have 
been a King. He saw his comrades, condemned to 
lost battles with death or exile at the end of them. 
He saw his clan, which might have become great 
again, reduced to famished vagrants, like the rabble 
of Macdonalds seen an hour ago scurrying at the 
tail of the army. . „ . That knot of caterans was 
the true comment on the tragedy. Plunderers of 
old wives’ plenishing when they should have been 
a King’s bodyguard in the proud courts of palaces! 

The picture maddened him with its bitter futility. 
He dropped his head on his breast and cried like a 
heartbroken child. “Ah, my grief, my grief! I 
have betrayed my Prince and undone my people. 
There is no comfort for me any more in the world.” 


Confess Their Nakedness 309 

At the cry Johnson lifted his head, and stared with 
eyes not less tragic than his own. 

Midwinter had carried that day at his saddle-bow 
an oddly shaped case which never left him. Back 
in the shadow he had opened it and taken out his 
violin, and now drew from it the thin fine notes 
which were the prelude to his playing. Alastair 
did not notice the music for a little, but gradually 
familiar chords struck in on his absorption and 
awoke their own memories. It was the air of 
“Diana,” which was twined with every crisis of the 
past weeks. The delicate melody filled the place 
like a vapour, and to the young man brought not 
peace, but a different passion. 

A passion of tenderness was in it, a wayward 
wounded beauty. Claudia’s face again filled his 
vision, the one face that in all his life had brought 
love into his bustling soldierly moods and moved 
his heart to impulses which aforetime he would 
have thought incredible. Love had come to him 
and he had passed it by, but not without making 
sacrifice, for to the goddess he had offered his most 
cherished loyalties. Now it was all behind him— 
but by God, he did not, he would not regret it. He 
had taken the only way, and if it had pleased Fate 
to sport cruelly with him, that was no fault of his. 
He had sacrificed one loyalty to a more urgent, and 
with the thought bitterness went out of his soul. 
Would Lochiel, would the Prince blame him? As¬ 
suredly no. Tragedy had ensued, but the endeavour 
had been honest. He saw the ironic pattern of life 
spread out beneath him, as a man views a campaign 
from a mountain, and he came near to laughter— 
laughter with an undertone of tears. 


310 In Which Three Gentlemen 

Midwinter changed the tune, and the air was now 
that which he had played that night on Otmoor in 
the camp of the moor-men. 

“Three naked men we be, 

Stark aneath the blackthorn tree.” 

He laid down his violin. “I bade you call me to 
your aid, Alastair Maclean, if all else failed you 
and your pride miscarried. Maybe that moment 
has come. We in this place are three naked men.” 

“I am bare to the bone,” said Alastair, “I have 
given up my lady, and I have failed in duty to my 
Prince. I have no rag of pride left on me, nor 
ambition, nor hope.” 

Johnson spoke. “I am naked enough, but I had 
little to lose. I am a scholar and a Christian and, 
I trust, a gentleman, but I am bitter poor, and ill- 
favoured, and sore harassed by bodily affliction. 
Naked, ay, naked as when I came from the 
womb.” 

Midwinter moved into the firelight, with a 
crooked smile on his broad face. “We be three 
men in like case,” he said. “Nakedness has its 
merits and its faults. A naked man travels fast 
and light, for he has nothing that he can lose, and 
his mind is free from cares, so that it is better 
swept and garnished for the reception of wisdom. 
But if he be naked he is also defenceless, and the 
shod feet of the world can hurt him. You have 
been sore trampled on, sirs. One has lost a lady 
whom he loved as a father, and the other a mistress 
and a Cause. Naturally your hearts are sore. 
Will you that I help in the healing of them? Will 


Confess Their Nakedness 311 

you join me in Old England, which is the refuge 
of battered men?” 

Alastair looked up and gently shook his head. 
“For me,” he said, “I go up to Ramoth-Gilead, like 
the King of Israel I heard the parson speak of this 
morning. It is fated that I go there and it is fated 
that I fail. Having done so much to wreck the 
Cause, the least I can do is to stand by it to the end. 
I am convinced that the end is not far off, and if 
it be also the end of my days I am content.” 

“And I,” said Johnson, “have been minded since 
this morning to get me a sword and fight in His 
Highness’s army.” 

Alastair looked at the speaker with eyes half 
affectionate, half amused. 

“Nay, that I do not permit. In Scotland we 
strive on our own ground and in our own quarrel, 
and I would involve no Englishman in what is con¬ 
demned to defeat. You have not our sentiments, 
sir, and you shall not share our disasters. But I 
shall welcome your company to within sight of 
Ramoth-Gilead.” 

“I offer the hospitality of Old England,” said 
Midwinter. 

There was no answer and he went on— 

“It is balm for the wearied, sirs, and a wondrous 
opiate for the unquiet. If you have lost all bag¬ 
gage, you retire to a world where baggage is un¬ 
known. If you seek wisdom, you will find it, and 
you will forget alike the lust of life and the dread 

of death.” ^ 

“Can you teach me to forget the fear of death?” 
Johnson asked sharply. “Hark you, sir, I am a 
man of stout composition, for there is something 


312 In Which Three Gentlemen 

gusty and gross in my humour which makes me care¬ 
less of common fear. I will face an angry man, or 
mob, or beast with equanimity, even with joy. But 
the unknown terrors of death fill me, when I reflect 
on them, with the most painful forebodings. I con¬ 
jecture, and my imagination wanders in labyrinths 
of dread. I most devoutly believe in the living God, 
and I stumblingly attempt to serve Him, but ’tis an 
awful thing to fall into His hand.” 

“In old England,” said Midwinter, “they look 
on death as not less natural and kindly than the 
shut of evening. They lay down their heads on the 
breast of earth as a flower dies in the field.” 

Johnson was looking with abstracted eyes to the 
misty woods beyond a lozenged window, and he 
replied like a man thinking his own thoughts aloud. 

“The daedal earth!” he muttered. “Poets, many 
poets, have sung of it, and I have had glimpses of 
it. ... A sweet and strange thing when a man 
quits the servitude of society and goes to nurse with 
Gaea. I remember . . .” 

Then a new reflection seemed to change his mood 
and bring him to his feet with his hands clenched. 

“Tut, sir,” he cried, “these are but brutish con¬ 
solations. I can find that philosophy in pagan 
writers, and it has small comfort for a Christian. 
I thank you, but I have no part in your world of 
woods and mountains. I am better fitted for a civil 
life, and must needs return to London and bear the 
burden of it in a garret. But I am not yet per¬ 
suaded as to that matter of taking arms. I have 
a notion that I am a good man of my hands.” 

Midwinter’s eyes were on Alastair, who smiled 
and shook his head. 


Confess Their Nakedness 313 

“You offer me Old England, but I am of another 
race and land. I must follow the road of my 
fathers.” 

“That is your answer?” 

“Nay, it is not all my answer. Could you under¬ 
stand the Gaelic, or had I my fingers now on the 
chanter-reed, I could give it more fully. You in 
England must keep strictly to the high road, or flee 
to the woods—one or the other, for there is no 
third way. We of the Highlands carry the woods 
with us to the high roads of life. We are natives 
of both worlds, wherefore we need renounce 
neither. But my feet must tread the high road till 
my strength fails.” 

“It was the answer I looked for,” said Mid¬ 
winter, and he rose and slung his violin on his 
arm. “Now we part, gentlemen, and it is not likely 
that we shall meet again. But nevertheless you are 
sealed of our brotherhood, for you are of the 
Naked Men, since the film has gone from your 
sight and you have both looked into your own 
hearts. You can never again fear mortal face or 
the tricks of fortune, for you are men indeed, and 
can confront your Maker with honest eyes. Fare¬ 
well, brother.” He embraced Alastair and kissed 
him on the cheek, and held for a second Johnson s 
great hand in his greater. Then he left the room, 
and a minute later a horse’s hooves drummed on 

the stones of the little yard. 

For a little the two left behind sat in silence. 

Then Johnson spoke: 

“My dear young lady should by this time be 
across Trent. I take it that she is safe from all 
perils of the road in Her Grace’s carriage.” Then 


314 


In Which Three Gentlemen 


he took up a poker and stirred the logs. “Clear 
eyes are for men an honourable possession, but they 
do not make for happiness. I pray God that those 
of my darling child may to the end of a long life 
be happily blinded.” 


Chapter XIX 

RAMOTH-GILEAD 


r P 1 HREE hours’ hard riding should have brought 
them to the tail of the Highland army, but 
the horses were still in their stalls when the night 
fell. For, as he sat by the fire with Johnson, the 
latches of Alastair’s strength were loosened and it 
fell from him. The clout on the head, the imper¬ 
fect convalescence, the seasons of mental conflict 
and the many hours in the saddle had brought even 
his tough body to cracking-point. The room swam 
before his eyes, there was burning pain in his head, 
and dizziness and nausea made him collapse in his 
chair. Johnson and the hostess’s son, a half-grown 
boy, carried him to bed, and all night he was in an 
ague—the return, perhaps, of the low fever which 
had followed his wound at Fontenoy. There was 
a buzzing in his brain which happily prevented 
thought, and next day, when the fever ebbed, he 
was so weak that his mind was content to be vacant. 
By such merciful interposition he escaped the bit¬ 
terest pangs of reproach which would have followed 
his realisation of failure. 

The first afternoon Johnson sat with him, giving 

him vinegar and water to sip, and changing the cool 

cloths on his brow. Alastair was drifting aimlessly 

on the tide of weakness, seeing faces—Claudia, 

Kitty of Queensberry, Cornbury, very notably the 

handsome periwigged head of the King’s Solicitor— 

like the stone statues in a garden. They had no 

315 


316 Ramoth-Gilead 

cognisance of him, and he did not wish to attract 
their notice, for they belonged to a world that had 
vanished, and concerned him less than the figures 
on a stage. By and by his consciousness became 
clearer, and he was aware of a heartbreak that en¬ 
veloped him like an atmosphere, a great cloud of 
grief that must shadow his path for ever. And yet 
there were rifts in it where light as from a spring 
sky broke through, and he found himself melting 
at times in a sad tenderness. He had lost tragic¬ 
ally, but he had learned that there was more to 
prize than he had dreamed. 

Johnson, his face like a bishop’s, sat at the bed 
foot, saying nothing, but gazing at the sick man 
with the eyes of an old friendly dog. When Alas- 
tair was able to drink the gruel the hostess pro¬ 
duced, the tutor considered that he must assist his 
recovery by sprightly conversation. But the honest 
man’s soul had been so harassed in the past days 
that he found it hard to be jocose. He sprawled 
in his wooden chair, and the window which faced 
him revealed sundry rents in his small-clothes and 
the immense shabbiness of his coat. Alastair on his 
bed watched the heavy pitted features, the blinking 
eyes, the perpetually twitching hands with a cer¬ 
tainty that never in his days had he seen a man so 
uncouth or so wholly to be loved; and, as he looked, 
he seemed to discern that in the broad brow and 
the noble head which was also to be revered. 

The young man’s gaze having after the fashion 
of sick folk fixed itself upon one spot, Johnson be¬ 
came conscious of it, and looked down on his dis¬ 
reputable garments with distaste not unmixed with 
humour. 


Ramoth-Gilead 


317 


“My clothes are old and sorry,” he said. “I 
lament the fact, sir, for I am no lover of negligence 
in dress. A wise man dare not go under-dressed 
till he is of consequence enough to forbear carrying 
the badge of his rank upon his back. That is not 
my case, and I would fain be more decent in my 
habiliments, which do not properly become even my 
modest situation in life. But I confess that at the 
moment I have but two guineas, given me by my 
dear young lady, and I have destined them for 
another purpose than haberdashery.” 

What this purpose was appeared before the next 
evening. During the afternoon Johnson disap¬ 
peared in company with the youth of the inn, and 
returned at the darkening with a face flushed and 
triumphant. Alastair, whose strength was reviv¬ 
ing, was sitting up when the door opened to admit 
a deeply self-conscious figure. 

It was Johnson in a second-hand riding-coat of 
blue camlet, cut somewhat in the military fashion, 
and in all likelihood once the property of some 
dashing yeoman. But that was only half of his new 
magnificence, for below the riding-coat, beneath his 
drab coat, and buckled above his waistcoat, was a 
great belt, and from the belt depended a long scab¬ 
bard. 

“I make you my compliments,” said Alastair. 
“You have acquired a cloak.” 

“Nay, sir, but I have acquired a better thing. I 
have got me a sword.” 

He struggled with his skirts and after some diffi¬ 
culty drew from its sheath a heavy old-fashioned 
cut-and-thrust blade, of the broadsword type. With 
it he made a pass or two, and then brought it down 


318 


Ramoth-Gilead 


in a sweep which narrowly missed the bedpost. 

“Now am I armed against all enemies,” he cried, 
stamping his foot. “If Polyphemus comes, have at 
his eye,” and he lunged towards the window. 

The mingled solemnity and triumph of his air 
checked Alastair’s laughter. “This place is some¬ 
what confined for sword-play,” he said. “Put it 
up, and tell me where you discovered the relic.” 

“I purchased it this very afternoon, through the 
good offices of the lad below. There was an honest 
or indifferent honest fellow in the neighbourhood 
who sold me cloak, belt and sword for three half¬ 
guineas. It is an excellent weapon, and I trust to 
you, sir, to give me a lesson or two in its use.” 

He flung off the riding-coat, unbuckled the belt 
and sat himself in his accustomed chair. 

“Two men are better than one on the roads,” he 
said, “the more if both are armed. I would consult 
you, sir, on a point of honour. I have told you that 
I am reputably, though not highly born, and I have 
had a gentleman’s education. I am confident that 
but for a single circumstance, no gentleman need 
scruple to cross swords with me or to draw his 
sword by my side. The single circumstance is this 
—I have reason to believe that a relative suffered 
death by hanging, though for what cause I do not 
know, since the man disappeared utterly and his end 
is only a matter of gossip. Yet I must take the sup¬ 
position at its worst. Tell me, sir, does that un¬ 
happy connection in your view deprive me of the 
armigerous rights of a gentleman?” 

This time Alastair did not forbear to smile. 

“Why, no, sir. In my own land the gallows is 


Ramoth-Gilead 


319 


reckoned an ornament to a pedigree, and it has been 
the end of many a promising slip of my own house. 
Indeed it is not unlikely to be the end of me. But 
why do you ask the question?” 

“Because I purpose to go w r ith you to the wars.” 

Johnson’s face was as serious as a judge’s, and 
his dull eyes had kindled with a kind of shamefaced 
ardour. The young man felt so strong a tide of 
affection rising in him for this uncouth crusader 
that he had to do violence to his own inclination in 
shaping his counsel. 

“It cannot be, my dear sir,” he cried. “I honour 
you, I love you, but I will not permit a futile sacri¬ 
fice. Had England risen for our Prince, your aid 
would have been most heartily welcome, but now 
the war will be in Scotland, and I tell you it is as 
hopeless as a battle of a single kestrel against a mob 
of ravens. I fight in it, for that is my trade and 
duty; I have been bred to war, and it is the quarrel 
of my house and my race. But for you it is none 
of these things. You would be a stranger in a for¬ 
eign strife. . . . Nay, sir, but you must listen to 
reason. You are a scholar and have your career to 
make in a far different world. God knows I would 
welcome your comradeship, for I respect your 
courage and I love your honest heart, but I cannot 
suffer you to ride to certain ruin. Gladly I accept 
your convoy, but you will stop short of Ramoth- 
Gilead.” 

The other’s face was a heavy mask of disappoint¬ 
ment. “I must be the judge of my own path,” he 
said sullenly. 

“But you will be guided in that judgment by one 


320 


Ramoth-Gilead 


who knows better than you the certainties of the 
road. It is no part of a man’s duty to walk aim¬ 
lessly to death.” 

The last word seemed to make Johnson pause. 
But he recovered himself. 

“I have counted the cost,” he said. “I fear 
death, God knows, but not more than other men. 
I will be no stranger in your wars. I will change 
my name to Maclan, and be as fierce as any High¬ 
lander.” 

“It cannot be. What you told Midwinter is the 
truth. If you are not fitted by nature for Old Eng¬ 
land, still less are you fitted for our wild long- 
memoried North. You will go back to London, 
Mr Johnson, and some day you will find fortune 
and happiness. You will marry some day . . .” 

At the word Johnson’s face grew very red, and 
he turned his eyes on the ground and rolled his 
head with an odd nervous motion. 

“I have misled you,” he said. “I have been mar¬ 
ried these ten years. My dear Tetty is now living 
in the vicinity of London. ... I have not written 
to her for seven weeks. Mea culpa! Mea maxima 
culpa /” 

He put his head in his hands and seemed to be 
absorbed in a passion of remorse. 

“You must surely return to her,” said Alastair 
gently. 

Johnson raised his head. “I would not have you 
think that I had forgotten her. She has her own 
small fortune, which suffices for one, though scant 
enough for two. I earn so little that I am rather 
an encumbrance than an aid, and she is more pros¬ 
perous in my absence.” 


Ramotli-Gilead 321 

“Yet she must miss you, and if you fall she will 
be widowed.” 

“True, true. I have no clearness in the matter. 
I will seek light in prayer and sleep.” He marched 
from the room, leaving his new accoutrements lying 
neglected in a corner. 

Next day Alastair was sufficiently recovered to 
travel, and the two set out shortly after daylight. 
The woman of the inn, who had been instructed by 
Midwinter, had counsel to give. The Ashbourne 
road was too dangerous, for already the pursuit had 
begun and patrols of Government horse were on the 
trail of the Highlanders; two gentlemen such as 
they might be taken for the tail of the rebels and 
suffer accordingly. She advised that the road should 
be followed by Chesterfield and the east side of the 
county, which would avoid the high hills of the Peak 
and bring them to Manchester and the Lancashire 
levels by an easier if a longer route. It was agreed 
that the two should pass as master and man—Mr 
Andrew Watson, the coal-merchant of Newcastle, 
and his secretary. 

The secretary, ere they started, drew his sword 
and fingered it lovingly. “I must tell you,” he whis¬ 
pered to Alastair, “that the reflections of the night 
have not shaken my purpose. I am still resolved to 
accompany you to the wars.” 

But there was no gusto in his air. All that day 
among the shallow vales he hardly spoke, and now 
and then would groan lamentably. The weather 
was mist and driving rain, and the travellers’ pros¬ 
pect was little beyond the puddles of the road and 
the wet glistening stone of the roadside dykes. 
That night they had risen into the hills, where the 


322 


Ramoth-Gilead 


snow lay in the hollows and at the dyke-backs, and 
slept at a wretched hovel of a smithy on a bed of 
bracken. The smith, a fellow with a week’s beard 
and red-rimmed eyes, gave the news of the place. 
The Scots, he had heard, had passed Macclesfield 
the night before, and all day the militia, horsed by 
the local squires, had been scouting the moors pick¬ 
ing up breechless stragglers. He did not appear to 
suspect his sullen visitors, who proclaimed their 
hurry to reach Manchester on an errand of trade. 

Thereafter to both men the journey was a night¬ 
mare. In Manchester, where they slept a night, the 
mob was burning Charles in effigy and hiccuping 
“George is magnanimous”—that mob which some 
weeks before had worn white favours and drunk 
damnation to Hanover. They saw a few miserable 
Highlanders, plucked from the tail of the army, in 
the hands of the town guard, and a mountebank in 
a booth had got himself up in a parody of a kilt and 
sang ribaldry to a screaming crowd. They heard, 
too, of the Government troops hard on the trail, 
Wade cutting in from the east by the hill roads, 
Cumberland hastening from the south, Bland’s and 
Cobham’s regiments already north of the town, 
mounted yeomen to guard the fords and bridges, 
and beacons blazing on every hill to raise the 
country. 

“The Prince must halt and fight,” Alastair told 
his companion as they rode out of Manchester next 
morning. “With this hell’s pack after him he will 
be smothered unless he turn and tear them. Lord 
George will command the rear-guard, and I am posi¬ 
tive he will stand at Preston. Ribble ford is the 


RamotJi-Gilead 323 

place. You may yet witness a battle, and have the 
chance of fleshing that blade of yours.” 

But when they came to Preston—by circuitous 
ways, for they had to keep up the pretence of timid 
travellers, and the main road was too thick with 
alarums—they found the bridge held by dragoons. 
Here they were much catechised, and, having given 
Newcastle as their destination, were warned that the 
northern roads into Yorkshire were not for trav¬ 
ellers and bidden go back to Manchester. The 
Prince, it seemed, was at Lancaster, and Lord 
George and the Glengarry men and the Appin 
Stewarts half-way between that town and Preston. 

That night Alastair implored Johnson to return. 
“We are on the edge of battle,” he told him, “and 
I beseech you to keep away from what can only 
bring you ruin.” But the other was obstinate. “I 
will see you at any rate on the eve of joining your 
friends,” he said. “We have yet to reach Ramoth- 
Gilead.” 

The Preston dragoons were too busy on their own 
affairs to give much heed to two prosaic travellers. 
Alastair and Johnson stole out of the town easily 
enough next morning, and making a wide circuit to 
the west joined the Lancaster road near Garstang. 
To their surprise the highway was almost deserted, 
and they rode into Lancaster without hindrance.. 
There they found the town in a hubbub, windows 
shuttered, entries barricaded, the watch making 
timid patrols about the streets, and one half the 
people looking anxiously south, the other fearfully 
north to the Kendal road. The Prince had been 
there no later than yesterday, and the rear-guard 


324 


Ramoth-Gilead 


had left at dawn. News had come that the Duke 
of Cumberland was recalled, because of a French 
landing, and there were some who said that now the 
Scots would turn south again and ravage their way 
to London. 

The news, which he did not believe, encouraged 
Alastair to mend his pace. There had been some 
kind of check in the pursuit, and the Prince might 
yet cross the Border without a battle. He believed 
that this would be Lord George’s aim, who knew 
his army and would not risk it, if he could, in a 
weary defensive action. The speed of march would 
therefore be increased, and he must quicken if he 
would catch them up. The two waited in Lancaster 
only to snatch a meal, and then set out by the 
Hornby road, intending to fetch a circuit towards 
Kendal, where it seemed likely the Prince would lie. 

The afternoon was foggy and biting cold, so that 
Alastair looked for snow and called on Johnson to 
hurry before the storm broke. But the fall was 
delayed, and up to the darkening they rode in an icy 
haze through the confused foothills. The moun¬ 
tains were beginning again, the hills of bent and 
heather that he knew; the streams swirled in grey 
rock-rimmed pools, the air had the sour, bleak, yet 
invigorating tang of his own country. But now he 
did not welcome it, for it was the earnest of defeat. 
He was returning after failure. Nay, he was leav¬ 
ing his heart buried in the soft South country, which 
once he had despised. A wild longing, the perver¬ 
sion of homesickness, filled him for the smoky brown 
champaigns and the mossy woodlands which now 
enshrined the jewel of Claudia. He had thought 
that regrets were put away for ever and that he 


Ramoth-Gilead 


325 


had turned his eyes stonily to a cold future, but he 
had forgotten that he was young. 

In the thick weather they came from the lanes 
into a broader high road, and suddenly found their 
progress stayed. A knot of troopers bade them 
halt, and unslung their muskets. They were fellows 
in green jackets, mounted on shaggy country horses, 
and they spoke with the accent of the Midlands. 
Alastair repeated his tale, and was informed that 
their orders were to let no man pass that road and 
to take any armed and mounted travellers before 
the General. He asked their regiment and was told 
that it was the Rangers, a corps of gentlemen vol¬ 
unteers. The men were cloddish but not unfriendly, 
and, suspecting that the corps was some raw levy 
of yokels commanded by some thickskulled squire, 
Alastair bowed to discretion and bade them show 
the way to the General’s quarters. 

But the moorland farmhouse to which they were 
led awoke his doubts. The sentries had the trim¬ 
ness of a headquarters guard, and the horses he had 
a glimpse of in the yard were not the screws or cart¬ 
horses of the ordinary yeoman. While they waited 
in the low-ceiled kitchen he had reached the conclu¬ 
sion that in the General he would find some regular 
officer of Wade’s or Cumberland’s command, and as 
he bowed his head to enter the parlour he had re¬ 
solved on his line of conduct. 

But he was not prepared for the sight of Ogle¬ 
thorpe; grim, aquiline, neat as a Sunday burgess, 
who raised his head from a mass of papers, stared 
for a second and then smiled. 

“You have brought me a friend, Roger,” he told 
the young lieutenant. “These gentlemen will be 


326 


Ramoth-Gilead 


quartered here this night, for the weather is too 
thick to travel further; likewise they will sup with 
me. 

When the young man had gone, he held out his 
hand to Alastair. 

“We seem fated to cross each other’s path, Mr 
Maclean.” 

“I would present to you my friend, Mr Samuel 
Johnson, sir. This is General Oglethorpe.” 

Johnson stared at him and then thrust forward 
a great hand. 

“I am honoured, sir, deeply honoured. Every 
honest man has heard the name.” And he repeated: 

“One, driven by strong benevolence of soul, 

“Shall fly like Oglethorpe from pole to pole.” 

The General smiled. “Mr Pope was over-kind 
to my modest deserts. But, gentlemen, I am in 
command of a part of His Majesty’s forces, and at 
this moment we are in the region of war. I must 
request from you some account of your recent 
doings and your present purpose. Come forward 
to the fire, for it is wintry weather. And stay! 
Your Prince’s steward has been scouring the coun¬ 
try for cherry brandy, to which it seems His High¬ 
ness is partial. But all has not been taken.” He 
filled two glasses from a decanter at his elbow. 

Looking at the rugged face and the grave kindly 
eyes, Alastair resolved that it was a case for a full 
confession. He told of his doings at Brightwell 
after the meeting with Oglethorpe at the Sleeping 
Deer, and of the fate of Mr Nicholas Kyd, but he 
made no mention of Sir John Norreys. He told of 


Ramoth-Gilead 


327 


his ride to Derby, and what he had found on the 
Ashbourne road. It is possible that there was a 
break in his voice, for Oglethorpe averted his eyes 
and shook his head. 

“I cannot profess to regret a failure which it is 
my duty to ensure,” he said, “but I can pity a brave 
man who sees his hopes destroyed. And now, sir? 
What course do you shape?” 

“I must pursue the poor remains of my duty. I 
go to join my Prince.” 

“And it is my business to prevent you?” 

Alastair looked at him composedly. “Nay, sir, 
I do not think that such can be your duty. It might 
be Cumberland’s or Wade’s, but not Oglethorpe’s, 
for you can understand another loyalty than your 
own, and I do not think you will interfere with 
mine. I ask only to go back to my own country. I 
will give you my word that I will not strike a blow 
in England.” 

Again Oglethorpe smiled. “You read my heart 
with some confidence, sir. If I were to detain you, 
what would be the charge? You have not yet taken 
arms against His Majesty. Of your political doings 
I have no experience: to me you are a gentleman 
travelling to Scotland, who has on one occasion ren¬ 
dered good service to myself and so to His Majesty. 
That is all which, as a soldier, I am concerned to 
know. You will have quarters for the night, and 
to-morrow, if you desire it, continue your journey. 
But I must stipulate that the road you follow is not 
that of the Prince’s march. You will not join his 
army till it is north of Esk.” 

Alastair bowed. “I am content.” 

“But your friend,” Oglethorpe continued. “This 


328 Ramoth-Gilead 

Mr Samuel Johnson who quotes so appositely the 
lines of Mr Pope. He is an Englishman, and is in 
another case. I cannot permit Mr Johnson to cross 
the Border.” 

“He purposes to keep me company,” said Alas- 
tair, “till I have joined the Prince.” 

“Nay, sir,” cried Johnson. “You have been 
honest with us, and I will be honest with you. My 
desire is to join the Prince and fight by my friend’s 
side.” 

Oglethorpe looked at the strange figure, below 
the skirts of whose old brown coat peeped a scab¬ 
bard. “You seem,” he said, “to have fulfilled the 
scriptural injunction ‘He that hath no sword, let 
him sell his garment and buy one.’ But, sir, it may 
not be. I would not part two friends before it is 
necessary, but you will give me your parole that you 
will not enter Scotland, or I must hold you prisoner 
and send you to Manchester.” 

Johnson turned to Alastair and put a hand on his 
shoulder. 

“It seems that Providence is on your side, my 
friend, and has intervened to separate us. That 
was your counsel, but it was never mine. ... So 
be it, then.” He walked to the window and seemed 
to be in trouble with his dingy cravat. 

• •••••• 

Next morning when Oglethorpe’s Rangers began 
their march towards Shap, the two travellers set out 
by an easterly road, forded the Lune and made for 
the Eden valley. The rains filled the streams and 
mosses, and their progress was slow, so that for 
days they were entangled among the high Cumbrian 
hills. News of the affair at Clifton, where Lord 


Ramoth-Gilead 


329 


George beat off Cumberland’s van and saved the 
retreat, came to them by a packman in a herd’s 
sheiling on Cross Fell, and after that their journey 
was clear down the Eden, till the time came to avoid 
Carlisle and make straight across country for Esk. 
The last night they lay at an ale-house on the Lyne- 
side, and Alastair counted thirty guineas from his 
purse. 

“With this I think you may reach London,” he 
told Johnson, and when the latter expostulated, he 
bade him consider it a loan. “If I fall, it is my 
bequest to you; and if I live, then we shall assuredly 
meet again and you can repay me. I would fain 
make it more, but money is likely to be a scarce 
commodity in yonder army.” 

“You have a duty clear before you,” said the 
other dismally. “For me, I have none such; I 
would I had. But I will seek no opiates in a life 
of barbarism. I am resolved to spend what days 
the Almighty may still allot me on the broad high¬ 
way of humanity. When I have found my task I 
will adhere to it like a soldier.” 

Next morning they rode to a ridge beneath which 
the swollen Esk poured through the haughlands. 
It was a day of flying squalls, and the great dales 
of Esk and Annan lay mottled with sun-gleams 
and purple shadows up to the dark hills, which, 
chequered with snow, defended the way to the 
north. Further down Alastair’s quick eye noted a 
commotion on the river banks, and dark objects 
bobbing in the stream. 

“See,” he cried, “His Highness is crossing. We 
have steered skilfully, for I enter Scotland by his 
side.” 


330 


Ramoth-Gilead 


“Is that Scotland?” Johnson asked, his short¬ 
sighted eyes peering at the wide vista. 

“Scotland it is, and somewhere over yon hills lies 
Ramoth-Gilead.” 

Alastair’s mind had in these last days won a cer¬ 
tain peace, and now at the sight of the army some¬ 
thing quickened in him that had been dead since 
the morning on the Ashbourne road. Youth was 
waking from its winter sleep. The world had be¬ 
come coloured again, barriers were down, roads ran 
into the future. Hazard seemed only hazard now 
and not despair. Suddenly came the sound of wild 
music, as the pipers struck up the air of “Bundle 
and go.” The strain rose far and faint and elfin, 
like a wandering wind, and put fire into his veins. 

“That is the march for the road,” Alastair cried. 
“Now I am for my own country.” 

“And I for mine,” said Johnson, but there was 
no spring in his voice. He rubbed his eyes, peered 
in the direction of the music, and made as if to 
unbuckle his sword. Then he thought better of it. 
“Nay, I will keep the thing to nurse my memory,” 
he said. 

The two men joined hands; and Alastair, in his 
foreign fashion, kissed the other on the cheek. As 
they mounted, a shower enveloped them, and the 
landscape was blotted out, so that the two were iso¬ 
lated in a world of their own. 

“We are naked men,” said Johnson. “Each must 
go up to his own Ramoth-Gilead, but I would that 
yours and mine had been the same.” 

Then he turned his horse and rode slowly south¬ 
ward into, the rain. 


Postscript 


r jT 1 HUS far Mr Derwent’s papers. 

With the farewell on the Cumberland moor 
Alastair Maclean is lost to us in the mist. Of the 
nature of Ramoth-Gilead let history tell; it is too 
sad a tale for the romancer. But one is relieved to 
know that he did not fall at Culloden, or swing like 
so many on Haribee outside the walls of Carlisle. 
For the Editor has been so fortunate as to discover 
a further document, after a second search among 
Mr Derwent’s archives, a document in the hand¬ 
writing of Mr Samuel Johnson himself; and there 
seems to be the strongest presumption that it was 
addressed to Alastair at some town in France, for 
there is a mention of hospitality shown one Alan 
Maclean who had crossed the Channel with a mes¬ 
sage and was on the eve of returning. There is no 
superscription, the letter begins “My dear Sir,” and 
the end is lost; but since it is headed “Gough 
Square,” and contains a reference to the writer’s be¬ 
ginning work on his great dictionary, the date may 
be conjectured to be 1748. Unfortunately the paper 
is much torn and discoloured, and only one pas¬ 
sage can be given with any certainty of correctness. 
I transcribe it as a memorial of a friendship which 
was to colour the thoughts of a great man to his 
dying day and which, we may be assured, left an 
impress no less indelible upon the mind of the young 
Highlander. 


331 


332 Postscript 

. I send by your kinsman the second moiety of 
the loan which you made me at our last meeting, 
for I assume that, like so many of your race and 
politics now in France, you are somewhat in straits 
for money. I do assure you that I can well afford 
to make the repayment, for I have concluded a 
profitable arrangement with the booksellers for the 
publication of an English dictionary, and have al¬ 
ready received a considerable sum in advance. . . . 

“I will confess to you, my dear sir, that often in 
moments of leisure and in quiet places, my memory 
traverses our brief Odyssey, and I am moved again 
with fear and hope and the sadness of renunciation. 
You say, and I welcome your generosity, that from 
me you acquired something of philosophy; from 
you I am bound to reply that I learned weighty 
lessons in the conduct of our mortal life. You 
taught me that a man can be gay and yet most reso¬ 
lute, and that a Christian is not less capable of for¬ 
titude than an ancient Stoic. The recollection of 
that which we encountered together lives in me to 
warm my heart when it is cold, and to restore in 
dark seasons my trust in my fellow men. The end 
was a proof, if proof were wanted, of the vanity of 
human wishes, but sorrow does not imply failure, 
and my memory of it will not fade till the hour of 
death and the day of judgment. . . . 

“I have been at some pains to collect from my 

friends in Oxford news of my lady N-. You 

will rejoice to hear that she does well. Her hus¬ 
band, who has now a better name in the shire, is an 
ensample of marital decorum and treats her kindly, 
and she has been lately blessed with a male child. 
That, I am confident, is the tidings which you desire 



Postscript 333 

to hear, for your affection for that lady has long 
been purged of any taint of selfishness, and you can 
rejoice in her welfare as in that of a sister. But I 
do not forget that you have buried your heart in 
that monument to domestic felicity. Our Master 
did not place us in this world to win even honest 
happiness, but to share and purify our immortal 
souls, and sorrow must be the companion of the 
noblest endeavour. Like the shepherd in Virgil 
you grew at last acquainted with Love, and found 
him a native of the rocks. . . 


THE END 










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